A Learning Curve' or 'How Sherlock Seduced John Without Trying'
by starrysummernights
Summary: Sherlock hadn't thought it would be this hard convincing John to sleep with him. John's nickname was 'Three Continents Watson' after all. Co-written with Emmish. Inspired by the 50 Reasons To Have Sex Fic Fest.
1. Because You Can't Get To Sleep

**Welcome to mine and Emmish's newest story! This is _not_ a sequel to Frustration but an entirely new venture. The idea for this story from the 50 Reasons To Have Sex Fic Fest (link on profile page) and we'll be using that list as our guide through this sexy romp. Each chapter will use a different prompt and we hope you enjoy each and every one.  
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The door to John's bedroom softly swung open and a tall, wraith-like figure slipped inside, shutting the door behind it with a barely discernible _click_. On the bed, John made a sleepy sound of distress, throwing one arm outside his covers. The dark figure froze, its entire body stiffening. It silently watched John thrash on the bed before he settled, dropping back to sleep again.

Across the room, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, his heart pounding in his chest at the fear of discovery, at being in John's room while the other man slept. He knew this was a bit not good...but was unable to help himself.

A slightly chilly draft insinuated its way into John's room from the open window, causing the older man to twitch his exposed arm vaguely. The previous, record-breaking heat of the spring day had rapidly collapsed into a cool, starless night and the open window provided an enchanting, cool tang of London midnight air, tasting of pollution and the residual sweat of a working day. The cool air swirled in the room, mixing into a delectable cocktail with the sleep-tainted, mouth-watering musk that was John Watson.

Breathing deeply but softly, Sherlock moved quietly towards his...towards John's bed, kneeling carefully at the side, his knees making the barest of _thunks_ as he lowered himself to the floor.

His eyes, keen even in the dark, roamed over John's supine body, frustratingly shielded from his sight by the sheet. Sherlock wanted to touch, wanted to reach out and run his fingers along John's exposed skin, feel the heat of his skin and the softness of John's fine hairs beneath his fingertips... But then John would wake up. He'd blink sleepy eyes up at Sherlock, at first bemused by his presence…before frowning. He'd get angry, demand to know what the hell Sherlock was doing in his room at almost midnight.

Or would he?

Sherlock sucked in a sharp, excited breath and reached down, squeezing his firming cock through his pyjamas. Instead of getting angry, would John maybe smile? Give Sherlock a lazy, seductive grin and pull back the covers, invite Sherlock into bed with him? Would he kiss Sherlock- not the chaste pecks Sherlock was already addicted to- but kiss him _properly_, with lots of tongues and saliva and heat?

Sherlock glanced up, rather resentfully, at John's wide-open bedroom window, which was inviting the occasional moon-chilled breezes inside, birthing goosebumps on the sleeping doctor's arms even as Sherlock watched, his pale grey-green eyes aided only by the sickly-yellow, feeble streetlights at the end of Baker Street.

He wanted to close the window but was afraid the noise would wake John. And that was something Sherlock wanted to avoid. Desperately wanted to avoid.

He knew he shouldn't be in John's room without permission...but he wanted...he wanted _more_.

He and John had officially been dating for a week.

The past seven days had been the happiest and yet most frustrating ones of Sherlock's entire life. He'd thought, once he and John got together, that John would be more...ardent. More randy than he actually was with Sherlock. All Sherlock's data about John's past girlfriends suggested John would be trying to have sex with him after the very first day- and Sherlock had been eagerly, if a bit apprehensively, looking forward to it.

But John hadn't even _hinted_ at moving things beyond the too-quick pecks he sometimes gave Sherlock, innocently pressing their lips together before quickly pulling away. Sherlock's virginity obviously made John want to take things slow and Sherlock, for one, was tired of it.

Licking his heart-shaped lips, a rogue spring breeze almost immediately cooling and drying them, Sherlock took a few deliberately slow breaths and _very_ gingerly inserted his long-fingered right hand into his pyjama bottoms. He gulped as he touched himself, wincing with a mixture of distaste and arousal as his fingers and thumb detected his own warm, slick, traces of pre-come.

He rubbed experimentally at the wetness, absently slicking it around the exposed head of his cock-

Sherlock gasped at the unexpectedly pleasurable lightning bolt of feeling the action elicited. It speared its way through his abdomen and ricocheted back to settle, throbbing and hot, in his testicles. Sherlock's cock bounced in his fingers, blood pumping hotly through it, and he bit his lip to keep any more rogue noises in.

He didn't want to wake John.

Slowly, mindful of making too much noise, Sherlock began a deliberate, firm rhythm at his cock, pumping his hand over the swollen shaft with brisk, business-like strokes designed to get him off in a hurry. He hadn't done this in ages- hadn't felt the need- but since his and John's first kiss, Sherlock's libido, usually quiescent and dormant, had taken a sudden upswing. It'd clambered for his attention on a daily basis, whereas before he'd barely felt the occasional twitch.

It was incredibly distracting.

Tonight, he hadn't been able to sleep for his insistent erection. His mind had conjured up the most lascivious fantasies involving things he and John could possibly do together…if only John would be amenable. Sherlock had finally given in to the temptation and touched himself, lying beneath a thin sheet in his own room. But it hadn't worked. He'd wanted to be closer to John.

Hence this, his clandestine visit.

Sherlock closed his eyes, losing himself in the tingling sensations he was provoking in his own body. The fabric of his pyjamas rubbed distractingly over the head of his cock with each motion of his hand, brushing along the sensitive skin and making Sherlock shudder in increasing desire. He nibbled on his plump bottom lip, grimacing in pleasure, eyes still tightly closed. It was a risk he was well aware of- John could wake at any moment and catch Sherlock unaware- but he couldn't resist as his strong fingers continued to tease and tug on his tumescent shaft. Sherlock's staggered inhales, growing heavier the faster he moved his hand, tasted of John's sweet, sleeping, nocturnal, delicious, irresistible scent...Sherlock choked down a lustful growl as the sexual adjectives regarding his doctor- of which he had many- began to spin and mount into lascivious stacks and engage in vivid, flesh-coloured orgies in his Mind Palace.

He opened his eyes, staring at John's sleeping form laid out on the bed, still and quiet and unaware of what Sherlock was doing. For how much longer? How much time did he have before John woke? He had to finish this- now- before John came awake.

Heart pounding, Sherlock sped up the motions of his hand, face feeling hot as he stifled his heavy breathing. He was afraid if he opened his mouth and breathed properly he'd wake John…and this would all be over. He didn't want it to be over. He didn't want John to get angry with him, or be forced to go back downstairs to his own room and finish himself off alone, in the dark, without John. It was much better here, listening to John breathe, knowing he was just an arms-length away…

Sherlock, feeling the gravity of the situation, stroked faster at his cock, urging himself to come-…._come_-

John suddenly shifted on the bed, body moving restlessly beneath the sheets, and Sherlock went instantly still.

His cock, gripped in his hand, pulsed, adrenaline surging through his veins. A thin string of pre-come welled from the tip, dribbling along his fingers as he held his breath, heart in his throat, watching John writhe.

Sherlock _ached_ to move. His cock throbbed in heated arousal and he could feel himself poised on the very brink. He was afraid to move, afraid to give in to the overwhelming desire to finish himself off, afraid the smallest noise would wake an already fidgety John. And so he remained kneeling beside the bed, cock hard and leaking in his hand, holding his breath, waiting for John to settle again.

To Sherlock, mouth dry in arousal and fear, it seemed to take much longer than it should have.

Finally, once he was sure John was asleep, his breaths once again even and deep, Sherlock huffed in abject relief. He began furiously moving his hand over his cock, desperately needing to come. His hips twitched up into his hand and he grunted as softly as he could as he felt the first, faint stirrings of his orgasm looming.

Sherlock very slowly eased himself back from the bed's edge, where he had been soaking up John's unconscious sighs like a perverted sponge, and watched the minuscule hitches of breath expounded by John's lungs and expressed in the rise and fall of his chest.

His eyes slid almost shut, his mouth falling open in a soundless cry of pleasure._ Quiet, quiet, quiet_! His mind shouted at him, and he was trying. He was trying so very hard, even as his orgasm threatened to crest, singing along his nerve endings like fire and making him want to shout. He dizzily realized he had nothing to catch the result of his pleasure in and gave his pyjamas the briefest, irrational apologetic glance in the gloom of the barely lit room.

John stirred again, turning onto his back and throwing his head back, revealing the strained line of his neck.

Sherlock choked, gasped, unable to stop himself, not when he was so close- he couldn't stop-

"_Mmmm_..." John moaned sleepily. It was a sound of contentment at finding just the right spot to lay or a really good dream getting even _better_…but regardless of the reason, the sound went straight to Sherlock's cock.

"Oh!..._F-fuck_!" Sherlock forced out, losing his balance and helplessly tumbling back against the radiator, his body hitting it with a loud _CLANG_. He gritted his teeth and tried his utmost to hold back the desperate, breathy yelps that burned up his throat as his body trembled through the orgasmic shocks of previously unknown intensity. The sharp lance of pain in his upper arm translated as the merest whisper in his head under the paralyzing weight of his climax. Sherlock's entire body was trembling, pleasure zinging through his frame. His brain felt fried.

As the last of his orgasm faded, Sherlock, quietly panting, stared at John in dread, knowing he'd been too loud. He waited for his new boyfriend to wake up and discover him there- on his arse on the floor, his hand still wrapped stickily around his cock, his crotch covered in come.

John, though, slept on, unaware of what had happened.

Sherlock breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Swallowing heavily, his chest heaving and limbs trembling, Sherlock wiped his hands ineffectually on pyjama bottoms that covered shaky thighs. He inhaled a few more much needed breaths, his body reluctantly coming down from its orgasmic high, wincing at the feeling of lukewarm semen gluing itself unpleasantly to his crotch and upper thighs. Sherlock stood with a stifled groan, his muscles protesting the movement, his legs having fallen asleep as he knelt beside John's bed.

Sherlock allowed himself a brief glance at John, wishing he could just clean up and snuggle in alongside him and share in his languidness. Have John sling an arm around his body and share his heat. Sherlock had never woken up beside anyone before, he'd never even slept with someone, and he wondered what it would be like. Uncomfortable? Crowded? Strangely erotic? Stiflingly hot?

John had made himself very clear, though, on more than one occasion: he thought they should be taking things slow. Unhurried at an almost glacial pace. Sherlock smiled fondly but exasperatedly at his sleeping John. He was grateful John was the way he was...but he didn't want to move as slow as John was suggesting.

Heaving another sigh, he turned to go, walking on tiptoe to the door and carefully opening it. He slipped out without another sound, closing the door and creeping down the stairs, wincing at the way his drying semen painfully pulled at his pubic hairs.

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After Sherlock's footsteps - heavier than he'd like to believe, despite all his claims of being a master of stealth (and, when he was drunk, "A... _SUPER_ ninja John! Like...a cartoon...like those...tortoises...") disappeared downstairs, John allowed himself to grin in the dark, hugging his pillow to himself.

He chuckled and reached between his legs, his own cock hard from listening to Sherlock's impromptu wank session. Still grinning, he began jacking himself hurriedly, breathing heavily. He'd woken when Sherlock had opened the door but pretended to sleep, wanting to know what his new, irrepressibly curious boyfriend would do. John had been shocked- shocked to his core- when he'd realized Sherlock was wanking, was kneeling beside his bed and touching himself stealthily in the dark…

"_Oh_." John breathed, replaying the way Sherlock had reacted to his staged moan, the way Sherlock had gasped and cursed through his own orgasm, unable to stay silent. Fisting himself harder, John wasted no time in bringing himself to a spectacular orgasm, sinking back onto the bed in relief. He grinned into the dark, shaking his head. It seemed he needed to have a talk with Sherlock in the morning.


	2. Make-Up Sex

**Thanks for all the lovely support and reviews! We greatly appreciate them and hope you like the rest of the story!**

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Sherlock groaned into wakefulness, sunlight spearing painfully through his eyelids, the peachy London dawn endeavouring to bugger up his already erratic sleeping pattern. He stretched in his bed and spent a few seconds assessing the statistics which, on a daily basis, immediately inundated his sleepy brain. Temperature of the room. The weather outside. Air pressure. His own body's status. The location of John.

_John_.

Sherlock moaned happily, smiling, the events of last night filtering back through his mind in wonderfully stunning detail. That had been fun. Immensely satisfying. And he'd got away with it- John hadn't known. Perfect.

Sherlock came fully awake, sniffing at the air, gathering the scents of eggs and toast, jam, and the sweet, pungent smell of tea. Smiling to himself, he climbed out of bed, groaning as he stretched. His strained muscles rewarded him with a jolt of pleasure and he unconsciously let out a small, indistinct noise of satisfaction. He yawned, pulling on a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms- a clean pair, since he'd discarded his soiled pair from last night- and faffed about at his dressing table before leaving his room, tentatively peering at the dissected aphids which were languishing on microscope slides. He scowled, prodding at them with a pair of tweezers, making a mental note to come back to them later and give them proper care. He'd neglected this particular experiment for too long- fantasies of John having distracted him the previous night.

Making his way from his room, Sherlock followed the mouth-watering scent of food to the kitchen…but paused on the threshold, suddenly horribly aware of the fact that the last time he'd seen John, he'd been clutching his own cock and wanking over John's sleeping form. It didn't matter that John hadn't been aware of it, that he was currently blithely smearing butter on pieces of toast without an inkling of what had taken place last night. Sherlock knew. And the memory made him blush.

He hadn't realized it would feel awkward the morning after. He hadn't realized that, instead of scratching an itch and getting it out of his system, the wank had instead fuelled even more fantasies and made everything…worse.

Taking a deep breath and schooling his face into impassive lines, Sherlock walked into the kitchen, doing his best to ignore John and pretend nothing was wrong. He saw, from the corner of his eye, John look up when he came in and smile, his entire face lighting up. Sherlock felt a curl of pleasure, a happy jolt in the vicinity of his stomach, at being the one who put that look on John's face, just by walking into a room.

His cheeks flushing despite his attempted nonchalance, Sherlock swanned to the kitchen table and sat, plucking up the newspaper and opening it without a word, covering his face so John wouldn't notice his blush and suspect anything was amiss. John could be annoyingly astute at the most inopportune times.

The clink of a plate being set in front of him let Sherlock know John was nearby and suddenly, warm lips pressed against his cheek and a hot, swooping sensation fluttered in his chest.

"Good morning, Sherlock." John murmured, voice low and happy. Sherlock could feel his own face burning, and his mind was infiltrated immediately with factoids about arousal, capillary action, and blood flow. Forcibly pushing these thoughts aside, he swallowed hard and his long, pale fingers alighted in John's ash-brown hair for the briefest touch, before he pulled back abruptly. Sherlock's heart was hammering and his mouth was uncomfortably dry. John smelled _wonderful_- a combination of clean soap, tea, and the spicy scent of the lotion he used to shave with.

"Good morning to you too, John." Sherlock said tightly, trying not to give in to what he really wanted to do, which was turn, bury his face in John's stomach, and just _breathe_.

One of John's hands briefly touched Sherlock's thick, dark curls and, before Sherlock had had a chance to arch into the touch, John was gone, moving back into the kitchen for the rest of their breakfast.

Sherlock stared longingly after him.

"It's just...I'd like one," Sherlock uttered in a seemingly random non-sequitur, causing John to turn and frown questioningly at him, just as Sherlock averted his eyes self-consciously, his strong, white knuckles clenching distractedly.

"Like one what?" John asked, snagging the salt and pepper as he strode back to the table.

Sherlock couldn't say it; the words were lodged in his throat, choking him. He gazed up at John who'd stopped by his chair, his face calm and patient, one eyebrow raised slightly as he waited for Sherlock to tell him what it was he wanted.

"I..." Sherlock cleared his throat nervously, musician's fingers twiddling with his silverware, making the spoon and fork clink and chime together loudly. "A...a..." Sherlock brought one hand up to toy with his bottom lip and John's eyes jumped down to the movement.

He smiled in understanding. "You don't have to ask me for a kiss, Sherlock," He said gently, bending down and pressing his lips against Sherlock's.

There was a loud metallic clatter as Sherlock dropped his cutlery, the fork bouncing off the table and landing somewhere out of sight. The tinkling crash was almost drowned out by Sherlock's shaky grunt of desperation, his ordinarily talented hands scrabbling weakly, and without familiarity, at John's nape.

Sherlock felt John chuckle into the kiss, his lips curving up even as he kissed him. Sherlock, feeling shaky, strained up, wanting more. Impulsively, he stuck his tongue out, without grace or finesse, against John's closed lips and John made a surprised noise, pulling away. Sherlock's hands slipped from around his neck.

"We don't have to rush things." John's thumb traced over Sherlock's sharp cheekbone, his eyes soft and reassuring…and Sherlock wanted to pull his hair out in frustration.

"_Why_ can't we?" He asked, grimacing with irritation. "Your...your women- I'm not some...virgin who's going to shatter." He spat angrily.

John pulled even further away, frowning. "What about 'my women?'"

"You always slept with them on the first date, if they let you." Sherlock said, a voice at the back of his mind telling him he needed to shut up _now_, that he was pushing John too far and he'd end up pushing him away…but he ignored it. "If they didn't, and the relationship worked out, you at least had sex with them by the second date. And then afterwards as many times as you could get it. _We_ have been together for an entire week and haven't...you won't..." Sherlock huffed, his annoyance and hopelessness with the whole situation getting the better of him. "…If you don't want to sleep with me, just say so." His body tensed, waiting for John's agreement, his expression visibly, and deeply, unhappy.

"What? No- Sherlock, that's not it at all." John knelt in front of Sherlock and took his hands in his own. "Of course I want to...do that with you-"

"You do?" Sherlock asked suspiciously, hope blooming in his chest.

"Of course." John smiled, squeezing his hands. "Of course I do. I have for a long time." He cleared his throat, cheeks going the slightest bit ruddy. "It's just...well, you _are_ a virgin..."

Sherlock's face contorted in irritation as a delicious, happily apricot coloured London morning sun exposed itself beyond the slightly-grimy kitchen window, showering the flat with intense light. Sherlock blinked against the glare, trying to understand, his face a grim, frustrated portrait, clearly showing an inexpressible anguish over the whole situation.

John, heart clenching at the sight of his beautiful love so unusually confused, gave Sherlock a brief, chaste peck. "I'm incredibly flattered you want me, ok? Seriously. It's just a bit terrifying to think that I may hurt you or do the wrong thing or even- hell- scare you-"

"You won't hurt me, John." Sherlock scoffed. "And as I said before, I'm not going to shatter-"

"Well, I want to make sure you don't." John said firmly. "I want to make sure- as much as I can- that everything's perfect for you. All right?"

"Everything will be perfect if you snog me silly as often as I like and make me come on a regular basis, starting at some point today." Sherlock announced, straight-faced, before suddenly emitting his rare, adorable (to John), deep-toned giggle.

John gave a startled laugh, checking to see that yes, Sherlock had been completely serious, and shook his head. "We'll see."

He winked at Sherlock before standing and making his way around the table to his own chair, plopping down in it with a sigh and a happy look at his breakfast. "You are going to eat." He didn't bother making it a question and Sherlock, after making a moue of displeasure just for the sake of keeping up appearances, picked up fork and stoically began eating.

"So. What happened to your arm?"

Sherlock froze. "What?"

"That. On your arm." John nodded at the small cut on Sherlock's exposed arm, the skin around it discoloured by a bruise.

Sherlock followed John's gaze to the mark, heart starting up a quick tattoo inside his chest. A flurry of confusion, and then almost immediately, shock, threw him into a sudden, silent panic. "I...That. That happened when I..."

"_Yes_?" John prompted, eyes sparkling.

"That's...um..." A distant voice in his head reminded Sherlock he was only a good liar when he was prepared for it. Being put on the spot like this, he tended to stutter and flail about while he searched for a reasonable excuse. John knew that.

Sherlock took a large bit of toast and made a point of chewing slowly, intently, whilst he constructed a plausible backstory for the wound he hadn't even realised he'd sustained the previous night. His pale, grey-green eyes flickered tellingly as the feeble fabrication started to manifest.

"...Oh, you know, I just...fell out of bed."

"Oh." John hummed, taking a bite of his own toast. "I thought you might have injured yourself last night when you snuck into my room for a wank. Dangerous business, that."

Sherlock inhaled his bit of toast, crumbs going down the wrong pipe, and coughed so violently, hunching suddenly over the table, that John's smug smile vanished and his doctorly instincts caused him to scramble to Sherlock's side, one hand protectively spread across his back.

"Are you all right?" John asked worriedly, patting Sherlock firmly on the back as the other man's eyes watered and he struggled for air. Sherlock nodded shakily, still coughing around the constriction in his chest, and gave John a watery, tentative look.

"Are you..." He paused to cough again, clearing his throat. "…Are you...angry?"

"Mmm...I should be." John shrugged, making sure Sherlock was ok before giving him a teasing smile. "But considering last night- listening to you wank by my bed- was one of the hottest things I've ever heard...no. I'm not angry."

Sherlock wiped his streaming eyes which was the result of nearly suffocating on his toast, and breathed deeply, relieved John wasn't angry. "I thought I'd gotten away with it. You were...wait…what do you mean, 'hot?'" he asked indignantly.

John bit his lip, giving Sherlock a mischievous look. "Listening to you gasp and moan while you touched yourself...of course it was hot. And then at the end..." He trailed off and Sherlock stared at him, trying to work out if he were being made fun of or not. But no, John was perfectly serious...and if the sudden bulge in his jeans was anything to go by, he was enjoying the memory of last night.

"Oh." Sherlock said nonsensically, not knowing how to move forward from this. John was obviously aroused and seemingly amenable to do...something... Should Sherlock make the first move? Should he wait for John to do it? Would John even do such a thing or would he wait on Sherlock?

"...If you knew...why didn't you do anything?" Sherlock asked rather pathetically, his striking features contorted in a beautifully baffled expression.

John shrugged. "I wanted to see what you were going to do. And then when I realised…didn't want you to stop." He leaned forward, fingertips tracing the side of Sherlock's neck, making goosebumps break out along his skin. "Wish I could've seen it though." He murmured, eyes dropping to Sherlock's lips. "God, the _noises_ you made… Want to give me a demonstration?"

John was totally unprepared for the sudden and shockingly hefty weight of Sherlock launching himself from his rickety chair and tackling John onto the grubby kitchen floor. Rather violently and, as John's back landed against the floor with a jarring _thud_, painfully. Sherlock's weight was unpredictably and unbelievably heavy on top of him and John would have reprimanded him, or at least given a gasp of disbelief, if Sherlock hadn't been trying to snog him senseless with very little skill but a _lot_ of enthusiasm.

John grunted, his hands flailing slightly before settling on Sherlock's bony hips, rolling him gently to the side.

"We should - _mmf_-"

Sherlock didn't wait for the rest of John's words, impatiently sealing their lips together again, not to be deterred from his goal.

John tried again.

"_Sherlock_-" He raised his head out of Sherlock's reach and the man began pressing awkward, closed mouth kisses along John's neck, inhaling great lungfuls of air as he did so as if he were trying to breathe John in.

"Sherlock...we should do this...on a bed...n-not on the kitchen floor." John protested, his voice wobbling when Sherlock's tongue snaked out and gave the barest of licks against his Adam's apple.

"This is...a horizontal surface...it's..." Sherlock growled against John's neck, grunting needily. "It's you and me, what more do you need?" he gasped, parting his heart-shaped lips and sucking very hard on John's jaw.

"_Fuck_..." John breathed, his resolution wavering under the sights and sounds of Sherlock practically begging him...but the idea of doing anything on the dirty, crummy kitchen floor sealed it. John shook himself free of Sherlock's grip and stood, offering him his hand. "Sofa. And I'll...I'll do whatever you want. Ok?"

That was the best thing Sherlock had heard John say in seven days. He seized John's smaller hand greedily and dragged him forcibly to the sofa. "Spread me, take me," he murmured, lying down on the sofa and staring up at John expectantly.

John frowned, trying to sync up this Sherlock, who was blatantly begging for it, to the shy, blushing Sherlock of the past week, the one who had stealthily sneaked into John's room and wanked instead of waking him up and demanding sex like this one would have done.

"_Oh_." Sherlock looked up at John, his eyes going heavy-lidded and lips parting. His body writhed sinuously on the couch even as his hands fisted, white-knuckled, on the cushions. "Oh, I want you, John. Make me feel good...like only you can. Make me feel every inch of your fat prick...baby."

John was shaking his head before Sherlock said the last word and at that, he winced. "Sherlock, no. Just...don't."

"Don't what?" He asked, licking his lips before drawing the bottom one in between his teeth, nipping at it coquettishly. "I just want your cock, John. Your thick, _fat_ cock pounding into me-"

"Sherlock!" John interrupted him, not able to hear any more. "Why are you talking like this?" He rubbed a hand through his short hair, ruffling it in a physical expression of confusion.

Sherlock blinked. "I don't...isn't that what I'm supposed to say?"

"Who said _that_ was what you're supposed to say?" John asked, a sudden, horrible idea dawning of Lestrade sitting Sherlock down and, for a joke, telling him to say those sorts of things. He'd kill him.

"I...I watched your porn." Sherlock mumbled, avoiding looking at John. "While you were out. Sometimes. With your girlfriends. And...in the porn you liked- I only watched the ones you'd viewed multiple times in order to get the most accurate portrayal...that's what the women always said so I thought...that's what you wanted to hear..."

John's face fell as he sighed, kneeling beside the sofa and taking Sherlock's hand, gripping it tight. "I want you to say whatever you feel you _need_ to say, okay? I want to hear you tell me you're not comfortable, or if something hurts. I want to hear you tell me to stop if you need it or tell me exactly what you want, what feels good. I want to hear the noises you make when you're so far gone you can't even vocalise anything except 'yes' and my name." He grinned. "But I don't want to hear trite pornographic scripts because you think it'll make me happy. Trust me, it won't."

Sherlock frowned, eyes flicking between each of John's own, trying to understand. It didn't make sense. John had watched some of those videos upwards of twenty times. He'd even saved a few in special, password protected folders on his laptop. Sherlock had spent _hours_ memorizing those' trite, ridiculous pornographic' phrases John had obviously loved masturbating to...and apparently it'd all been for nothing?

"You…don't want me to say those things?" He asked hesitantly.

"Christ, no."

"You...want me to tell you what I want?"

"Yes. But in your own words, Sherlock. Not...not those."

Sherlock nodded slowly, swallowing thickly. "I'll just…start then?"

"Go ahead."

"I...I would very much like your hand...t-touching my penis, John."

John bit back a grin and planted his left hand firmly on Sherlock's chest, traversing across the fabric of his T-shirt to find the soft nub of his right nipple and pinching it delicately.

"I said penis!" came the sudden, but tellingly-urgent baritone complaint.

"Just thought you'd want to fully enjoy this." John said innocently, easing his way down and gripping the bottom of Sherlock's shirt, intent on pulling it up-

Long fingers grasped his hand, stilling it, and John gave Sherlock a questioning look.

Sherlock squirmed on the sofa, looking uncomfortable. "Can...can it stay on?" His eyes glanced at John's own T-shirt and boxers. "And can we maybe...close the curtains?"

John's gaze flicked over to the open window through which a steady breeze gusted pleasantly, the early morning sky outside brightly mango-coloured, spilling bright light throughout the flat.

"What for?"

Sherlock shrugged, still fidgeting, and John decided not to argue with him. He got up and obligingly closed the curtains, plunging the room into semi-darkness. Sherlock relaxed against the sofa once the light was dimmer, but his legs trembled when John knelt in front of him, his muscles jumping with nerves.

"Can you not...look?" Sherlock murmured, his large hands unconsciously, irrationally, raising up as if to block an assault and not just John's view of his still-clothed body.

"Not look?" John repeated, bemused. "Love, we don't have to do this _at all_ if you don't want-"

"N-no! I want to." Sherlock insisted, trying to force his stubborn body to just relax. He wanted this. He didn't know why he was so nervous. "I want to." He repeated firmly, catching John's hand and pressing it, decisively and insistently, against his groin. His cock had gone a bit soft from nerves, but he hoped the gesture conveyed his message.

"It's okay." John whispered in a deep, velvety tone which Sherlock hadn't heard before- and he thought he'd catalogued every single nuance, tone, and timbre of his doctor's voice. Wide-eyed in the semi-darkness, he felt small but strong fingers slip under the waistband of his £100 designer pyjama bottoms and his heart skipped a beat.

"Did you ruin the last pair?" John whispered teasingly near Sherlock's ear, laughing softly and Sherlock responded with a short huff of nervous laughter- then tensed at the first brush of calloused fingertips against the top of his pelvis. They glided down, down, down and stopped just short of where he wanted them to be. John's fingers sifted through Sherlock's hair and he spread his legs further apart, wordlessly urging John to go lower.

"Is this all right?" John asked, his voice still low, incredibly intimate in the darkness of the flat, and Sherlock shivered, wordlessly nodding. John's fingers slid further down, lower, brushing against the bottom of Sherlock's cock.

"_Ah_..." Sherlock's hips bucked up at the foreign sensation of those fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, warm and rough and firm.

"Can I see?" John whispered and Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking a few times to bring John into focus. "Please, Sherlock? Can I see you?"

"Can't you just...can't you just touch?" Sherlock asked throatily, already disoriented and quite frankly stunned by the sensation of another person's fingers on his shaft.

"If that's what you want." John replied, not pushing for more, his hand smoothing along Sherlock's cock, causing the younger man to arch and stifle a moan, the sensation sparking along his nerve endings and making his eyes slam closed again.

It felt completely different from when Sherlock touched himself. He'd never, ever touched himself and had it feel this…_perfect_. John's hand was differently proportioned than his own, calloused in places where Sherlock's hands were smooth, and the angle was different. Sherlock breathed in deeply through his nose, trying not to do something as uncouth as _pant_, aware of John's eyes watching him acutely.

His long fingers scraped noisily on the well-worn leather of the sofa, before he realized the action would signify and betray his desperation. Sherlock gulped hard, his long, delectable throat bobbing. He stilled his hands but couldn't help a few struggled, wheezy breaths leaving his lungs as John gave a twisting pull at his cock, the movement making his skin break out in goosebumps.

"How does it feel, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice hushed in the dark gloom of their sitting room. "Do you like this?"

John's voice made Sherlock's stomach flip and flop, and, embarrassingly, he felt a bead of moisture well from the tip of his cock.

"Y-yes." Sherlock managed to gasp and John made a pleased sound, swiping his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock and using the wetness there to ease the glide of his hand. Sherlock whimpered, tossing his head and clutching his fingers into fists, trying to tamp down on the nonsense noises he wanted to make. John's hand felt amazing. His cock was throbbing and his balls drawing up tight against his body. He felt as if he were suffocating the closer he got to orgasm but was afraid to open his mouth, afraid if he did he would _moan_ and John would laugh...

Sherlock writhed on the edge of orgasm, eyes tightly shut and brow crinkled, creating a web of pretty wrinkles against his skin in the early morning gloom. He could do nothing to smother the asphyxiated groans and grunts that forced their way from his throat and the few hissing breaths that escaped his moist lips as he approached climax.

"Are you close?" John's voice sounded in his ear, sending reflexive shivers racing down his spine. "Are you about to come for me, Sherlock?"

Oh- _oh_, he couldn't hold it in anymore. Sherlock's hips thrust up, his cock gliding through John's hand, and he desperately bit his lip as he tipped over the edge into orgasm.

Distantly, he was aware of the stab of pain as his teeth nipped viciously through the thin skin of his lip, blood welling from the cut into his mouth, but only vaguely. Sherlock was flying on a wave of sensation, his cock pulsing out hot come all over John's hand, staining the front of his pyjamas, and dripping down onto his own skin. Sherlock failed to repress a short, violent series of choked groans, his hand seizing the familiar, soft anchor of the old leather on the top of the sofa and clenching it helplessly, every convulsive aftershock of his orgasm deliciously punching through his muscles and nerves.

He heard John breathe in, but his hand didn't flag on Sherlock's cock until the last tremors of pleasure had ceded and he had started to whimper with oversensitivity. Carefully, John withdrew his hand, easing Sherlock's _pajamas_ back into place, and holding his come-covered hand slightly away from his body.

"Was that ok?"

"Thankyousomuch." Sherlock muttered, still wheezing. He placed shaky, sweaty fingertips on John's face and attempted to pull him closer for a kiss, but John resisted and it was only when Sherlock tasted the next fresh bout of blood that he realised why.

John shook his head, grabbing at a nearby box of tissues and using a few to staunch the blood trickling from Sherlock's lip. "Don't know why you did that." He said, smiling as he carefully dabbed at the raw, open place. "You could have just...let it out, Sherlock. No one would have heard you."

_You_ would have heard me, Sherlock thought, but shoved the thought aside. He still felt weak from his orgasm, limbs nicely trembly and loose, but already his mind was whirring, turning to the idea of reciprocating, of doing that to John.

Still in the process of getting his breath back, Sherlock self-consciously re-adjusted his pyjama bottoms, dismissing his discomfort at the drying, rapidly cooling semen within them. Standing on wobbly legs, he made a quick mental recap of how porn...'people' pleasured others with their hands. Recalling John's admonishment, he decided not to say a single word during the act. "Lay down John."

"Lay down?"

"I wish to..." Sherlock searched for the right phrase- then remembered John wanted him to use his own words. "I want to pleasure you manually as well and I believe the best position for that would be you lying down on the sofa." He tried to keep his voice firm and in-control, as if he knew what he were doing, and, from the way John's eyes went dark and his mouth went all pursed, Sherlock thought he achieved it.

John stretched out on the sofa, his erection already visible beneath his boxers. Sherlock knelt beside him, avoiding looking at _that_ place on John and shifting around until he was comfortable. "Well then. Now." He nodded and gave John a tentative smile, eyes skittering to the tent in John's boxers and then quickly away.

"Sherlock...do you..._want_ to see it?" John asked, grinning his genuine, clown-like grin in the imposed gloom of the living room which was rapidly being invaded by early-morning London sunlight - eye-watering and welcoming. John hinted wordlessly by hooking his own thumbs teasingly under the waistband of his boxers and tugging at them.

"Um...yes. Yes, that's perfectly..." Sherlock trailed off as John, taking him at his word, eased the fabric away from his body, pushing it down his thighs and revealing his erection, flushed and springing up once free of the confines of the fabric.

Sherlock's mouth went dry. He belatedly realized he was breathing faster than normal, his chest rapidly rising and falling at the gorgeous sight of John, half naked and erect, in front of him. John's thighs, muscular and stout instead of lean, were covered in a fine smattering of light coloured hair. The same hair surrounded John's cock (average length, slightly above average girth, with a gentle upward curve), in greater quantity and decidedly darker, though still blonde.

"Così bella," Sherlock uttered inadvertently, before pausing and meeting John's eyes with obvious worry.

"What does that mean?" John fidgeted slightly under Sherlock's perusal.

"…It's Italian…It means...'.so beautiful.'" Sherlock confessed, watching John's eyes go soft and a sweet smile break out across his face.

"Thanks. Um...I guess it's a bit shoddy to say it now but...you're very beautiful, too."

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, but didn't reply, not wanting to get bogged down in arguing with John over his looks (which he knew were atrocious) when he had more important things to do. Sherlock took a deep breath, which he was aware smelled strongly of his own ejaculate and the hopeful, musky scent of John's arousal. Extending a shaking hand to John's heavy, swollen shaft, he managed a strangled question. "Are you...fully...are you fully engorged?"

John glanced down at his erect cock, eyeing it playfully, speculatively. "Yes, I think so."

Sherlock nodded. "Perfect." He shifted forward on his knees and tentatively touched John's cock. It was hard, hot. It jumped when Sherlock touched it, flexing over John's abdomen. Sherlock ran his fingers down the length of it, releasing a shaky breath and looking to John for guidance.

"Just...oh, fuck," John groaned, swallowing, as a lance of sunlight pierced through a gap in the curtains and burned his closed eyes. "Do it like...you would to yourself."

Sherlock huffed out a breath and reached for John's cock again, encircling it in his hand and, after feeling it throb in his hand repeatedly, stroked downward forcefully.

John's body went rigid and he hissed, hands spasming at his sides. "_Gentler_!" He choked and Sherlock loosened his grip, running his hand up and down the dry length of John's cock in a quick pace.

"Sherl...please- slower...wetter," John panted and when Sherlock stared at him in innocent confusion, John spat into his own hand and slicked himself up with a sigh that was comprised of relief, but also of slight anxiety at what his detective might do next.

"Don't you ever...masturbate?" John asked timidly, not wanting to hurt Sherlock's feelings but Christ alive. Surely he didn't do that sort of thing to himself?

Sherlock shrugged, wrapping his hand back around John's slickened length. "Rarely. Last night was the first time I had felt the urge to do so in...six months."

John determinedly restrained a shiver at the still too-rough, haphazard treatment of his shaft. "You...didn't have an erection at all?...Or you had them and just ignored them?" His hands flinched tellingly with the temptation to pull Sherlock's large, enthusiastic fingers away from his cock.

"I rarely experienced erections and when I had them I ignored them." Sherlock pressed his lips together before he revealed how many erections he'd had over the past week and how difficult those had been to ignore...especially when John was chastely snogging him. "When they are persistent and I am…unable to ignore them, I deal with them as quickly as possible so I can resume more important activities." Sherlock swirled his hand around John's shaft as he'd felt him do earlier. He thought it was right from the way John's face crumpled and he arched his back but Sherlock decided to be a good, generous lover and ask- as John had done. "Is this right?"

"It's….it's….Sherlock…olive oil, kitchen...we don't have any lube, I've run out," John suddenly uttered, swallowing awkwardly, giving in and halting Sherlock's amateurish, slightly painful ministrations.

"You want me to use olive oil?" Sherlock asked hesitantly. John nodded.

"Yeah. It'll…ease the way. D-don't you ever use lube when you…?"

"I usually produce enough pre-ejaculate that the use of lubrication is unnecessary."

John snorted. "If you go six months between orgasms I bet you do. Just…just go and get it. Please?"

Sherlock obediently got up and trotted to the kitchen, easily finding the correct bottle among the designated 'EDIBLE' section of various containers, and brought it back to the sofa, kneeling once more beside John. He unscrewed the cap and, after looking to John for approval, drizzled a large amount of the thick, fragrant oil over John's erection.

John responded with a little choked noise, batting the oil bottle away impatiently, and licking his thin lips. "...Fast, but gentle," he instructed with as much decorum as he could muster, considering the tenderness of his shaft and the demands of his animal brain yelling at him that he needed to come. He distantly hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice...or at least, wouldn't be offended, by his softened cock.

Those long fingers wrapped around John's more-than-a-little flaccid cock, giving it short, quick strokes, Sherlock keenly watching as it thickened again. John sighed in relief, mouth falling open when Sherlock, his hand slickened with the oil, began making longer sweeps on his cock, accidentally swirling his thumb over the head every few strokes.

"Oh...yes, that's it...that's _it_," John sighed tremulously. He winced faintly as a rogue, London-tasting breeze shifted the closed curtains and a blinding sunbeam pierced the window and his eyelids, his eyelashes fluttering at the intrusion.

Sherlock's hand faltered in its rhythm and John moaned, jerking his hips up, chasing after his orgasm.

"_No_, no, no- _don't stop! Don't stop_- I'm almost...there." John pleaded and Sherlock, spurred on, began jerking at his cock harshly, fast and hard, and John shrieked as he suddenly came, his orgasm being forced almost painfully from him.

Sherlock let go in shock as John spurted surprisingly forcefully, accidentally dotting Sherlock's face with a few renegade drops of come, and soaking his hand with his creamy release.

"Oh - _oh, fuck_!" John frantically reached for his abandoned cock, quickly jacking himself through the rest of his almost-ruined orgasm, gasping as the last shocks rippled through his body. "Oh...Jesus..." He blinked his eyes open to find Sherlock staring at him, his cheek smeared with a bit of come and pale eyes widened almost comically, lips parted in shock.

Sherlock's heart-shaped mouth closed, before opening again wordlessly. He cleared his throat with a deep, strained noise that he struggled to keep under control, and spoke quietly. "You came."

"...Yeah." John agreed, deciding not to let him know it'd been a near thing. He'd wait until another time to tell Sherlock not to let go so quickly and actually _finish_ him before stopping. "You did...good."

The lie was worth it. Sherlock blushed and smiled shyly at John, glancing up at him from beneath his eyelashes.

"I did?"

"Course you did." John blithely replied, raising up and pulling a face at the slick amalgamation of come and olive oil on his crotch. "Think I'm for a shower." He gave Sherlock a suggestive smile. "Want to join me?"

"...N...No...after you," Sherlock murmured, glancing down at himself, making sure he was fully covered by his clothing, and then standing on wobbly legs, going to open the curtains. His pale face squinched painfully as a surprisingly bright sun shrank his pupils suddenly and revealed every last aqua-stained imperfection of his irises.

"If you're sure." John murmured. "I'll only be a minute." He assured Sherlock, knowing the other man had to be even more uncomfortable with drying come in his bottoms. He walked down the hall bowlegged, his penis throbbing sorely, hoping he wasn't leaving a dripping trail of fluids behind him.


	3. Curiosity

Sherlock huffed irritably as he followed John and Greg towards the pub a few blocks from Baker Street. The two men ahead of him were chatting animatedly and laughing, seemingly unaware of the consulting detective following in their wake.

Sherlock glared at the pair of them.

He'd hoped, once the case they'd been working on had been wrapped up and the annoying but necessary paperwork done, he and John could go back to their flat. He'd been _hoping_ that once there, he'd be able to somehow convince John to engage in relations of a sexual nature with him.

It'd been a whole _week_ since the shared handjobs on the sofa and John hadn't so much as _looked_ at Sherlock sexually- which was incredibly frustrating because Sherlock couldn't work out _why_. John seemed happy. He wasn't mad at Sherlock and Sherlock had made sure to do nothing to provoke him. He hadn't left any disgusting experiments on the table, no body parts in the fridge, and he'd even gone so far as to tidy his things in the sitting room…a bit. But John still refused to take things further- or even take them _back_ to what they'd already done (Sherlock was very happy with handjobs- John was pleasingly skilled in that area).

"Why don't you take that damn thing off, Sherlock?" Greg asked merrily, glancing back at the detective who was still wearing his long, heavy Belstaff purely out of stubbornness. Sherlock's usually pale face was reddened from the unseasonably high London temperatures and perspiration glistened on the sweet dent of his upper lip and wilted the dark hair resting on his annoyed, crinkled forehead. Sherlock shrugged, exhibiting a childish pout which would've rivalled a two-year-old, and crossed his arms, as they got to the door of the pub.

"You've got to be roasting." John joined in as they entered the crowded, overly-noisy pub. "It's not healthy to wear that in this heat."

Sherlock humphed, pulling his coat tighter around himself and glancing around the raucous room with a disdainful gaze. Half the patrons already looked drunk and, judging by the game on the televisions, there was enough time left for the rest of them to get smashed as well.

Sherlock grimaced. God, they would be here _ages_. John and Lestrade would get involved in the game, start trading witticisms and ridiculous stories of their own glory days, drinking all the while...

Sherlock ground his teeth together in annoyance. It seemed he wouldn't be doing anything sexual with John tonight either. And then tomorrow John would be hungover and wouldn't be amenable…

"I suppose it's too much to ask that you hold my hand on the way to the sticky, beer-stained, eight-year-old, wobbly, Tunbridge Wells-bought table," Sherlock muttered in John's ear, barely audible as a table of men dressed in rugby shirts started singing a loud, very vulgar song.

John gave Sherlock a look from beneath lowered brows, clearly letting Sherlock know he was aware of the childish pout and wasn't going to put up with it much longer. He still clasped Sherlock's hand in his own, towing Sherlock along behind him like a dark, sulking thundercloud in a redundant coat.

"This a good spot?" Lestrade asked, scoping out the best seat so he'd still be able to watch the wide-screen televisions.

"Yeah, it's great." John slid onto his own seat, putting his hand over Sherlock's knee as soon as the taller man sat beside him.

"Satisfactory if you want to indulge your occasional homo-erotic urges by imbibing a lot of alcohol and watching a group of over-paid, physically-fit young men chase a ball around a tatty field like a pack of horny, starving lions pursuing a vulnerable lioness with a fresh kill," Sherlock mumbled sourly.

There were a few stunned seconds of silence as John and Lestrade turned to stare at the detective. Sherlock glared at the grubby tabletop and flipped his collar up belligerently.

Greg recovered first. "Think John's got another way to indulge his homo-erotic urges these days." He said childishly, nudging John and grinning widely.

John chuckled good-naturedly. "Ta." He smoothed his hand along Sherlock's thigh, patting him reassuringly.

"Not that he's _indulged_ very much." Sherlock muttered mockingly and felt John's hand tighten warningly on his knee. Sherlock almost brushed John's hand away- he wasn't a child who needed scolding- but…it felt rather nice. The warmth and pressure of John's hand through his trousers was surprisingly pleasant and he wasn't about to cut off his nose to spite his face.

Greg, choosing not to encourage Sherlock's obvious sulk, swiftly changed the subject. "I'll get this round. Pint okay for you, John? ...Sherlock, you want anything?"

"No, thank you." Sherlock replied snidely. John waited until Greg had left before turning to Sherlock, eyebrows raised.

"Want to tell me what this is all about?" He asked, leaning forward so Sherlock could hear him and their conversation would stay private. "I would've thought after solving the case you would've been...happier."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I'm _very_ happy I solved the case, John. Who said I wasn't?"

"Come on." John replied, glancing around to check where Greg was. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock picked at a raw nick in the table's surface, still frowning. "You really are _unbelievably_ dense."

John frowned and opened his mouth, no doubt to scold Sherlock for being rude-

"Here you are." Greg announced, plunking a glass in front of John and sliding back into his own seat. "Miss anything while I was gone?" He asked, nodding towards the large television across from them.

Sherlock clasped his hands in front of him, his brow lowered, and looked away.

"They're talking about Hull's second goal…You're gonna lose, mate," John replied, forcing his voice into nonchalance, taking his glass and downing a few deep, fizzy mouthfuls. He ignored his boyfriend's irritated sigh, and turned to Greg. "How was your date the other night?"

Sherlock's pout deepened exponentially in the noisy gloom of the hot pub - he had no prior knowledge of the Inspector's assignation - but apparently, John did.

Greg shrugged. "Eh. Not too great. I knew what I was getting into when I let Elaine set me up with her friend. Blind dates always turn out the same." He chugged some of his beer and sighed, giving John a mischievous look. "You always end up with either the dull woman out of her flat for the first time in ages or the unapproachable ice queen who lets you know you're miles beneath her. Guess which one I ended up with?"

John took a few seconds to ostensibly ponder, his clownish grin soon showing. "Either you had the dull woman who was a scary secret nymphomaniac and who spouted a lot of creepy, rehearsed porn stuff, or you had the bitch who doesn't know a good thing when she sees it."

Sherlock's eyes flicked sharply to John's, his expression both murderous and stunned.

Greg laughed along with John. "I _wish_ she'd been a nymphomaniac. Christ. She was as unapproachable as-" He cut himself off, realizing the person he'd been about to say was sitting across the table from him, his face pinched and angry. "Uh...you know, someone unapproachable." Greg awkwardly finished, taking another swig of his beer to hopefully keep his foot from entering his mouth again. "I think if she'd opened her legs ice would've come out."

John laughed heartily. "Still...frozen chick...you might've been able to make popsicles. Get something out of it. And hey, you can snowball with a bit of frigidity," he chuckled dirtily, hand clutched loosely on his pint glass, as a deafening roar consisting of simultaneous victorious yells and despondent groans as a result of a goal, sounded from the drunken inhabitants, making their ears ring.

Greg snorted. "This woman was so frigid she wouldn't have even known what that was."

Sherlock, looking from John to Greg, clamped his mouth shut and desperately tried to look as if he knew what they were talking about but found it utterly beneath him.

To be honest, he was inflamed with a troubling uncertainty and a smouldering and rapidly-rising anger. Why was John talking so candidly and callously about someone's desire to abstain from sex? Especially when John himself was very experienced, and yet refused to go further with _him_? Sherlock shifted in his seat while John and Greg laughed, feeling a hateful jealousy rise up in his chest, warring with his anger.

"Oh, god." Greg laughed, nursing his pint glass, and flicked his chocolate-brown eyes towards the widescreen TV before returning them to John. "Fucking funny thing I overheard..." He cleared his throat, chuckling slightly before sobering somewhat. " 'I remember after Christmas Mass we'd always go snowballing with the priest and that's why Father McGuire was eventually arrested.' ...So bad." He grinned, taking another sip of his Carlsberg.

"That's hysterical." John agreed, his charming grin lighting up his face as his hand unconsciously squeezed Sherlock's leg, which was starting to tap in agitation. "…Sherlock, you alright, mate?" He asked, eyeing him fondly.

Sherlock frowned. _Mate_?

John gave Sherlock's leg another squeeze and Sherlock couldn't tell if it was in warning, agitation, or reassurance. Perhaps all three.

"_Sherlock,_ are you all right?" John asked again, stressing his name overzealously. "You didn't seem like you enjoyed the joke."

"I don't see what was so funny about it." Sherlock snapped, wanting to jerk his leg away from John but relishing the physical contact too much to take the high road. Everything was much too loud in the small pub, he was bored, and he just wanted to go home and get off with John. "What's so _hysterical_ about snowballing? Mycroft and I used to play snowballing all the time when we were younger."

Greg choked on his swallow of beer and immediately set about coughing, pounding on his chest, his eyes streaming. John looked shocked, eyes wide in horror, and Sherlock frowned, looking from Greg- who now had one hand planted in his silvery hair, giggling uncontrollably, his dark eyes crinkling in unrestrained amusement- to John, who looked incredibly angry, his jaw tight.

"What? I thought it was common for children to throw snowballs at each other. I see them doing it all the time on our street when it snows and they always end up pelting you, John. Though, you really encourage them and are just as bad as they are."

Sherlock didn't understand why John suddenly snorted, his stunned face melting into amusement. His hand came up to cover his mouth but not before Sherlock saw the huge grin plastered on his face and he came to a startling and unpleasant realization:

He was being laughed at. By John.

"I've had enough." Sherlock announced abruptly, standing with a flourish of his overly heavy, sweat-damp coat. Swiping a long hand across his wet forehead, he fixed John with a dark glare, supplemented with a wordless pout. He kicked the chair he'd been sitting on for good measure before storming towards the exit, re-adjusting his collar to restore the suffocating but comforting woollen barrier between himself and the rest of the world.

* * *

Sherlock, curled into a tight ball on the sofa in his PJs, heard the front door open barely half an hour later.

He was surprised John was back so soon. He'd expected his boyfriend- flatmate? were they even together now?- to stay at the pub with Greg, drinking and joking and probably making fun of him behind his back.

Sherlock's insides twisted with shame over what he'd said. As soon as he'd got back to the flat, Sherlock had googled what 'snowballing' was, appalled to find out it had nothing- absolutely _nothing_- to do with children's games.

He heard John's heavy tread on the stairs and curled tighter, pulling his dressing gown around himself and wishing he were invisible.

"Spare me your drunken platitudes." He said as soon as he sensed John's footsteps entering the living room. If they were going to fight, it was best to start off being prickly and mean instead of soft and embarrassed.

John's footsteps paused for interminable seconds, then started again, this time in the direction of the sofa. Sherlock's heart rate kicked up and every hair on his body seemed attuned to John like a lightning rod.

"I'm not drunk." John replied, his voice low and...apologetic? "I'm sorry for the pub, Sherlock. That wasn't...we shouldn't have laughed like we did. _I_ shouldn't have laughed." He paused and Sherlock listened to John take a deep, deep, deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Still buzzing with frustration and a lack of understanding over the events (or lack of events) of the past week- which frankly infuriated him- Sherlock let out a feral growl and flung the Union Jack pillow blindly over his shoulder, childishly hoping he hit John with it.

"What took you half an hour?" He asked, thinking John had probably stayed at the pub and told Greg about the whole thing, how ignorant and stupid Sherlock was when it came to sex. Not knowing about snowballing. Honestly.

"Could you maybe turn around and talk to me?"

Sherlock thought about refusing. He was still angry and hurt and, while he accepted John's apology, it still didn't solve the problem.

John sighed again. "Please?"

Huffing, Sherlock rolled over, putting as much belligerence as he could into the movement, but freezing when his eyes fell to the object John held in his hands.

The first thing Sherlock did was mentally reprimand himself for dismissing the sweet smell he'd noted as volatilized chemical compounds drifting into the sitting room from the street below. The second thing he did was forgive his own blunder because of his currently distracted state of mind. And the third thing he did was to flash a genuine, crinkly grin at the luscious red rose being offered to him, his insides warming at the sight.

John looked self-conscious, as if he expected Sherlock to sneer at his present or say something rude. He twirled the flower in his hands, eyes locked on it and not Sherlock. "I wanted to apologize...properly and all that. And I thought..." He trailed off, sighing, and wordlessly handed the rose to Sherlock, lips thinned down and obviously expecting scathing rejection.

Which was the farthest thing from what Sherlock wanted to do.

His fingers shook as he reached out and took the rose from John, plucking it from his fingers and staring at it as if he'd never seen one properly before.

"I _am_ sorry, Sherlock." John repeated, watching Sherlock twirl the flower between his fingers.

"Thank you." Sherlock murmured. "I...I wasn't...in the best of moods...at the pub." He admitted haltingly, knowing he'd contributed at least a _little_ to what had happened. "I've never been given flowers." He added with a faint chuckle, his pale eyes lowering in reminiscence. "Except that poisoned batch of tulips sent to me from Jessica Harding a few years before I met you. That was a close call... though I don't think, in this instance, those count."

John chuckled and bent, tilting Sherlock's head up with a finger. "Definitely doesn't count." He murmured before pressing his lips to that ridiculous, rambling, cupid's bow-shaped mouth.

Sherlock, one hand still clutching his rose, arched up into the kiss, his other hand grasping the front of John's shirt and tugging. His intentions were clear and John hesitated- briefly debated- then pulled away.

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock growled. "Why? _Why_ are you always pulling away from me? I may be inexperienced but I'm not a child. Stop treating me like one."

John licked his lips, groaning slightly as Sherlock's hand tugged insistently on his collar, choking him. "Sh...Sherl...let go," he managed, batting away the hand at his throat. The rose held in Sherlock's other hand twitched against his cheek, pricking him with a sharp thorn, and John pulled back forcefully, am impatient scowl on his face. Sherlock wordlessly dropped the plump, fragrant rose onto the floor.

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew Sherlock was getting frustrated with how slow things were progressing between them but honestly, had he expected John to shag him six ways from Sunday as soon as they got together?

From Sherlock's furious, frustrated scowl- apparently yes.

"I know you're not a child. Ok? It's..." John fidgeted. Christ, he was no good with things like this. "It's just...this- us- is important. To me... And…I don't want to treat it like my past relationships. Ok?" John asked, raising his eyebrows meaningfully but Sherlock was staring up at him, looking angry and confused. God, he was going to have to spell this out, wasn't he?

"This isn't like my other relationships." John concluded. "This is _important_, Sherlock-"

"You've already said that."

"Yeah, thanks." John quipped, taking a deep breath and whooshing it out agitatedly. "Look, I don't want to rush into this and make mistakes because ten years from now I don't want us to regret anything."

John, averting his eyes self-consciously, was suddenly brought back into Sherlock's line of sight with infinitely-talented, yet shakily-shy fingers gripping his cheeks. Striking eyes peered quizzically at him, brows crumpled uncertainly.

"Ten _years_?"

"Sorry if that's not what you- I didn't mean it like that, Sherlock." John back-pedalled as quickly as he could, his insides sinking at the stunned look on Sherlock's face. "I don't expect you to stay with me that long or anything. I don't want you to feel obligated just because I said- It was just a thought-"

"Don't be daft." Sherlock cut off John's nervous rambling. "Of course I want to spend the next ten years with you." _Forever,_ he silently added in his head, watching as John relaxed and he started breathing normally again.

"Oh. Ok. Right." John nodded. "That's…that's good to know." He smiled at Sherlock, his face creasing with warmth.

Sherlock smiled back at him before shifting on the sofa, letting go of John and extravagantly spreading himself in his well-worn grey T-shirt, silk pyjama bottoms and dressing gown, on the leather. He gave John what he felt was a 'come hither' look…but John only chuckled, blushing, and moved away.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the beat of rejection like an anvil blow- before his mind leapt into gear, running through the conversation he'd just had with John. It wasn't a rejection. Not really. He now understood why John wanted to slow their sexual progression and _wait_ (disgusting word, Sherlock hated it) and the knowledge that John was planning to stay with him that long...was making that sort of commitment to him...

Sherlock swallowed against the uncomfortable lump in his throat and rose from the sofa, following John through the flat and stopping behind him in the hallway.

"John."

As soon as John turned around, Sherlock leaned down and kissed him.

After the initial kiss - as passionate as a closed-mouth kiss could be - Sherlock pulled back, gasping. His eyes were dilated in the summery gloom of the flat, translucent skin perspiring due to the season and arousal. "...Ten years isn't long enough." He admitted abruptly.

"Good place to start though. Yeah?" John murmured, heart melting at the innocent amazement on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock gulped. "Yes." He kissed John again, pressing his lips as hard as he could against John's, wanting to convey how much John meant to him and how very much he wanted him.

They snogged indulgently for a few minutes and just as Sherlock eased back, determining this was probably violating John's definition of "waiting"… John sighed and pushed Sherlock forcefully back against the wall.

"...John?" Sherlock uttered, surprised and bewildered, his shoulder blades aching slightly from the impact. John sucked hungrily on Sherlock's throat.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asked, voice low and muffled against Sherlock's skin. "What do you want me to do to you, you gorgeous man?"

"Wh-what do _you_ want?" Sherlock asked throatily, delighting in the scent and heat that was John beginning to dedicate himself entirely to pleasuring his inexperienced detective.

John licked a wet line up Sherlock's neck and Sherlock arched, his spine bowing and hands coming up to settle on John's hips. He was already hard, just from this, just from John kissing him and doing deliciously wonderful, wicked things to his neck.

"I asked first." John said teasingly, nipping at Sherlock's clavicle and grinning at the accompanying gasp. He hummed, his hands sliding down to grip at Sherlock's hips, kneading them through the thin fabric of Sherlock's bottoms. Sherlock tensed but as soon as he felt Sherlock relax into the sensation, John yanked at him, pulling Sherlock forward and pressing his hard cock against John's hip.

"_God_!" Sherlock exclaimed violently, his white throat bobbing, his jaw clenching. The impact from John invigorated previously-unknown physical reactions and the weight and heat of John's hard-on against his leg felt unimaginably hot.

Even if he had never done this before, Sherlock's body seemed to already know what to do. His hips thrust against John, dragging his erection against the solid length of John's cock over and over- before Sherlock, pleasure fizzing in his body, realized what he was doing and stopped, pressed flush against John.

"Is...is this ok?" He asked, voice wobbling in arousal and need.

"...You want to know if it's ok if I want to hump you fully-clothed against this wall?" John chuckled, his face wrinkling in amusement. "Because 'okay' doesn't even _begin_ to cover it." He tugged at Sherlock's hips, insistently pressing their cocks together and Sherlock groaned, pleasure flaring beneath his skin. He was aware of John kissing him, his tongue snaking out and licking against his own while his hips gyrated, sending fresh bolts of hot arousal pulsating through his groin. His skin felt tight. Too hot.

"John, could you...maybe...take something off?" Sherlock managed, closing his eyes in a brief attempt at attaining sensible thought whilst being unfairly attacked by physiological desire.

"If you want me naked, strip me." John replied simply, lips moving down the column of Sherlock's throat and latching onto a pale section of skin, suckling at it gently.

Sherlock's skin broke out in shivers and he fumbled at the buttons of John's shirt. The round discs slipped between his fingers, elusive and seemingly beyond his shaky control. John's sensual attack on his neck- now the other side- making Sherlock wonder if he would have a matched pair of bruises- wasn't helping, was leaving Sherlock scattered and lost. Finally, knowing John was distracted, Sherlock quietly snapped off the buttons from John's shirt as he went, catching them in his hand and pocketing them as stealthily as he could. He slid the fabric from John's shoulders, running his hands greedily down the exposed skin, feeling the flex and pull of John's muscles beneath his palms.

John arched beneath his touch, breathing heavily. "Now you."

"What?"

"Now you." John tugged pointedly at the hem of Sherlock's t-shirt. "Can I see you this time? Please?"

Sherlock glanced in concern at John's bare chest. "You're, um...very..." He caught John's brief grin, and quickly stripped his own dressing gown and t-shirt, getting trapped in his sleeves in his hurry, and breathing hard in faint panic and awkwardness at being on a stage which was currently for John's judgemental eyes only. The t-shirt dropped, without drama, from Sherlock's wrists to their unclean floor, leaving him uncomfortable…bare.

He nervously tried sealing their lips together again, a pointless effort at distraction- but John pressed him back against the wall, holding Sherlock at arm's length, eyes raking over the newly revealed chest and abdomen. Sherlock watched John's throat bob as he swallowed, John's eyes flicking lower on Sherlock's stomach, taking in the way his pyjama bottoms hung from his bony hips.

Sherlock fidgeted. He knew he was too skinny. Scrawny. His collarbone jutted out from the top of his chest and his nipples were twin spots of darkness on a milky pale canvas. There were no faint traces of abs, no clearly defined pectorals gained from lifting weights and strenuous exercise. There was just...skin. Taut skin to be sure but...nothing remarkable. Next to John… well, there was no comparison who was better looking.

Sherlock wished he hadn't taken his t-shirt off. He felt exposed. _Too_ exposed. His hands came up, fluttering over his chest, and he self-consciously crossed as arms, blocking John's view.

"John...maybe this isn't a good idea" Sherlock said with a sickly expression. "If we just...you know...turn the lights off," he mumbled awkwardly. His erection, which had been very pronounced in his thin bottoms, had noticeably flagged and he couldn't look at John, didn't want to meet his eyes, afraid of what he'd see there if he did. This hadn't been a good idea. He should've listened to John when he said they should take things slow.

"What's wrong?" John asked, tearing his eyes away from the stunning view of Sherlock half-naked in front of him, worried when he found Sherlock shut down and closed off, no longer looking like a ridiculously innocent incubus intent on being ravished.

Sherlock's mouth twisted in barely-restrained irritability. "I'm bloody ugly, you _complete_ idiot! Just turn the _bloody_ lights off!"

"What?" John was startled into incredulous laughter and Sherlock, his face falling into hurt, closed lines, turned away. John's hand shot out and he grabbed him, spinning Sherlock back around and forcing him to meet John's gaze.

"What are you talking about? You're bloody gorgeous-"

"No, I'm not." Sherlock hissed, anger and pain lacing his voice and turning it venomous. "I know I'm not and you don't have to _pretend_. I already know what I look like so you can just-"

"Well, obviously you _don't_ know what you look like because otherwise you'd know you're fucking beautiful and my cock is so hard I could-"

"Physical stimulus is in no way indicative of my attractiveness-" Sherlock began but John cut him off again.

"Sherlock. You're stunning. Fucking gorgeous" He shook his head. "How do you not see that?"

"You say that to all your conquests. Please, John- if you still want to do this, turn the lights off. If there was a way I could see you and remain invisible, I would embrace it wholly. But I've memorised your...well, almost every inch of your body, and I can see you with my fingers, even in pitch darkness."

"I don't say that to all my 'conquest's as you put it- and _no_, Sherlock, I'm not turning the lights off-"

Sherlock tried to turn away from John again…but again, John's hand turned him right back around.

"I'm going to keep the lights on, you impossibly beautiful man, and I'm going to kiss every...single... goddamn inch of you and fucking show you how amazing I find your body until you have to believe me." John declared sternly, pressed himself against Sherlock, their cocks nudging together sweetly - one half-hearted (really, John swearing was incredibly erotic for very odd reasons which Sherlock needed to investigate later) and one still vigorously rampant. "Trust me," John murmured, placing his hand over Sherlock's flickering eyelids, eliciting a soft, yet not entirely-disagreeing noise.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock hated the way his voice sounded- stupid and weak- and pressed his lips together in thin line.

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course."

"Ok then."

Sherlock listened as John rustled around at the coat rack on the opposite wall, trying to deduce what he was doing- and nearly jumped when something soft touched his face. Fabric. Small. Narrow. A tie. He allowed John to wrap it around his eyes and knot it, careful not to get Sherlock's curls caught up.

"There." John's hands trickled up Sherlock's sides, tickling, a barely-there caress that made Sherlock shiver.

"…I can't see," Sherlock uttered rather pathetically, hands gripping at John's shoulders to anchor himself.

"Mm. That's the point, Sherlock." John hummed, hands still skating up and down Sherlock's sides.

Totally blinkered, his senses reduced to scent, taste, touch and sound, Sherlock nibbled his bottom lip, titling his head back and absorbing everything he could. "...Your fingers...you're using a new handwash...I know you don't like using mine because you think it's too posh for you...but they're softer than usual...your breath...I can tell you're using the same mouthwash and toothpaste as usual even though…I can smell the beer from the pub earlier. A microbrew you're rather fond of...your voice...you've b-been spending time with a new employee at work who smokes...you pretend you smoke just to get the ten minute break."

"Amazing." John's voice came from the vicinity of his chest and he guided Sherlock into an easy, rocking rhythm, bringing their cocks together again and again. "What else?"

Unexpectedly, there was a brief flash of wetness against Sherlock's nipple and he shouted in surprise, arching. His hips jumped forward, grinding against John before he could stop them.

"Yeah?" John sounded amused and Sherlock grit his teeth to keep from asking John to do it again. He silently nodded and John made a pleased sound, applying his mouth to Sherlock's chest again, swirling his tongue around the hard bud of his nipple.

Sherlock groped one hand possessively against John's backside, the other ruffling through the pleasant softness of John's short hair, urging him closer and arching his chest against his lips. Sherlock groaned, his feet slipping as he tried to support himself more sturdily against the wall. His thoughts were scattered. He pointlessly tried to rally them- but then John moved to his other nipple and laved over it with the same silky concentration he'd given the other. Sherlock rutted against John without encouragement, heart pounding in his ears, feverishly gripping every part of John he could get his hands on.

"J-John can we...can we...just a bit more? I'm- I'm nearly there." Sherlock admitted through gritted teeth, thankful for the blindfold so he didn't have to look at John while he said it.

"What do you need?" John asked but Sherlock shook his head, exasperated breaths panting from his lips. John grabbed his hips and ground their cocks together, rutting against Sherlock hard and fast, giving him as much pressure as he could. He swooped down and sucked one, copper-coloured nipple into his mouth, biting down-

Sherlock spine arched inward as he suddenly came, a loud roar of pleasure forcing its way from his throat. His hips and thighs bucked sharply as his release soaked into the pyjama bottoms, a burst of short, laboured sighs and gasps leading to the sightless detective practically collapsing against his doctor.

John didn't stop moving, huffing when he suddenly had an armful of very heavy and almost lax consulting detective in his arms, intent on chasing his own orgasm. "Oh...Oh...fuck, Sherlock..." He hissed, tensing as the first spasms rocked his body, sending pleasure skidding along his nerves. He couldn't remember the last time he'd came in his pants like a sodding teenager.

"...Ten...years..." Sherlock whispered, gripping tightly yet exhaustedly to John's arms as John rode out the rest of his orgasm. Sherlock pulled away the tie blindfolding him and opened his eyes languidly. "Oh...John..." He kissed John's slackened mouth, peppering kisses all over it and licking his lips as he drew away. He could feel John shaking against him and his own legs felt weak and unstable. They needed to get to a horizontal surface before they both collapsed but for now, Sherlock clung to John, the smaller man clutching him just as fervently, and dizzily realized this was just the beginning.


	4. Let's Get It On Is Playing

**We want to thank everyone for the lovely support this fic has garnered and hope everyone enjoys the latest chapter.**

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Sherlock grumbled as he strode around the flat at 7 in the morning, moody and irritable, glaring out the smeared window at the torrential spring rain which battered the glass like handfuls of pebbles thrown by an angry deity. He'd been hoping for a more desiccated atmosphere for his latest experiment involving salamanders and carbon monoxide in Mrs. Hudson's small garden out back. The sky outside was dark, though, massive clouds heavy with rain, and Sherlock's mood darkened when he realized his experiment would have to wait.

Pacing through the sitting room, muttering to himself, a glimpse of a rusty-red specimen under the coffee table caught his eye and Sherlock paused to investigate. He dropped to his knees and fished the thing out, frowning when he realized what it was.

Huffing irritably, he yelled indiscriminately, not entirely sure where John was, or whether he was even in the flat. "JOHN! Put my rose in water or it's going to die!"

Down the hall, the loo door opened and John stuck his wet, dripping head out. Soap bubbles clung around his face and slid down his neck.

"_What_?" He shouted back, eyes squinted closed to avoid getting soap in them and Sherlock held up the almost-dead rose, holding it aloft so John could see.

"You need to put my rose in water."

John frowned and slammed the door without answering.

"John? _JOHN_!" Sherlock bellowed, before twiddling his three-day-old rose in his fingers, scowling when a wilted petal fell off and fluttered to the carpet. He strode to the bathroom door and banged on it. "YOU KILLED MY ROSE!"

"I didn't kill your rose, you bloody idiot!" John's voice came through the door, muffled and irritated. "You forgot to put it in water-"

"Which was your fault." Sherlock shouted back. "If you hadn't...if we hadn't..." He couldn't say the words, already blushing over the memory and his erection from the remembrance starting to tent the front of his bottoms. "You distracted me." he finished lamely.

Unsurprisingly, John didn't respond.

Sherlock listened as the water turned off and the sounds of John towelling himself off were heard. Sherlock allowed his mind to wander just a bit, still standing in front of the door clutching his rose. His eyes were only _slightly_ glazed when John jerked the door open, towel wrapped around his waist. He gave Sherlock an amused look as his eyes darted from between his flushed face to the rose.

"I don't think_ I_ was the one pushing people up against walls and grinding my cock against them _for starters_," he said, grinning cheekily and dodging around Sherlock, towel clutched in his hand.

"Well, _actually_ –" Sherlock started tetchily…but trailed off as his eyes, widening in shock, took in John's suddenly naked body.

John, for his part, felt delightfully vindictive. It was gratifying- _highly_ gratifying- to be able to reduce Sherlock to total speechlessness just by dropping his towel and walking starkers through the flat. He'd never been ashamed of his body but it was heady to see the way Sherlock blushed, floundered, and got hard just from looking at John. Maybe it wasn't good of John to use that power to his advantage…but he was only human.

And, for his part, Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

John looked over his shoulder to where Sherlock was still standing in front of the loo door, the withered rose in his hand seemingly forgotten, and quirked an expressive brow. Sherlock's long fingers visibly twitched and a slightly-drunken expression clouded his pale, grey-green eyes.

Turning away, John stretched indulgently, adding in an elaborate, staged groan, much like the other night when Sherlock had been wanking beside him in the dark, and calmly plugged in the old CD player that dwelled behind Sherlock's armchair. He turned it on, knowing that if they were going to do what he was planning on them doing, he didn't want Mrs. Hudson's breakfast disturbed. The music would hopefully drown them out.

As music started playing, John brought his towel up and scrubbed at his hair, feeling a little ridiculous as he struck something of a pose, legs spread apart, one hip cocked to the side, arse on display. When he lowered the towel and snuck a glance, Sherlock had wandered in from the hallway and was hovering, unsure and clearly aroused, in the doorway to the sitting room. His rose was gone and John wondered where he'd dropped it this time.

"S'up, Sherlock? You look a bit lost," John said casually, as Percy Sledge's "When a Man Loves a Woman" infiltrated the small flat with smooth, sultry tones. He snorted derisively, remembering the last time he'd used the CD player- Sherlock had been gone to Bart's and John had invited one of his girlfriends to the flat for a romantic evening in. They'd had sex to the entire CD currently playing but, for the life of him, John couldn't remember her name. He decided not to mention this to Sherlock.

"What happens when a man loves a man?" Sherlock blurted abruptly, his cheeks burning as he watched John towelling off.

"What?" John asked, his seduction derailed, hands pausing with the towel over his chest where he'd been needlessly rubbing at his nipples.

"I mean...the way he's singing, it sounds like something...life-changing. It doesn't sound very smart, now I think on it." Sherlock frowned indignantly as the singer crooned _'she can bring him such misery, if she is playing him for a fool'_.

"You don't believe in love?" John lowered the towel to cover his penis, suddenly no longer in the mood. Something horrible and choking rose up through his throat, constricting his chest, as he waited for Sherlock's answer.

"No. I...I've never...It seems incredibly foolhardy to allow oneself to be so...enamoured with someone and allow them to be the only source of your happiness. People are inherently selfish and shallow. They rarely care for long." Sherlock stuttered out, clearing his throat and drawing on his usual reservedness, drawing in on himself, his eyes turning cool and shuttered.

John, instead of feeling a pang at seeing Sherlock retreating from him, actually relaxed. He recognized the protective armour for what it was and decided, for the time being, to let the subject drop. He'd known dating Sherlock wasn't going to be easy. He'd thought it might even be the best nightmare he'd ever had- but he was fully prepared to work for it. Work to make Sherlock realize he was loved, that love wasn't something to be afraid of.

Still clutching the damp towel to his groin, covering his modesty, John moved to his armchair and sat down, closing his eyes peacefully as the song drew to a close. He could hear Sherlock clear his throat ineloquently, waffling in the doorway, and John left it up to him to decide what to do next, not wanting to push him.

Sherlock, after a few seconds, edged into the room, blatantly staring at John's bare chest and firm, muscled legs. He'd tried not to stare at first, too stunned to realize that if John hadn't wanted Sherlock to see, he wouldn't have dropped his towel. When he realized John _did_ want him to see, Sherlock looked his fill.

Feeling apprehensive, Sherlock stood beside John's chair, looking down at the expanse of his chest, wondering if John's nipples were as sensitive as his own. John had rubbed them earlier but with no visible signs of enjoying it- his cock had remained only semi-hard. Perhaps if Sherlock licked them…

John suddenly snorted, his eyes opening, gleaming with amusement. "Oh, god."

Sherlock frowned, stomach swooping as he tried to figure out what he'd done wrong. "What?"

"The song."

Sherlock cocked his head, a trait John had always found adorable- it reminded him of an inquisitive puppy. "What about it? What's wrong with it? What's funny?"

".._And if you feel, like I feel baby_, _Come on, ooh, come on-"_

"It's 'Let's Get It On.'" John said, grinning ruefully and shaking his head. "I forgot that was even on here."

Sherlock nodded as if he understood. "It's...your favourite, then?"

"Not really, no." John chuckled, realizing he was going to have to explain this to Sherlock. "It's uh...it's a song people like to play when they're...when they're going to have sex."

"'People?' What people? Do you?" Sherlock asked, frowning, before waving his hand in a sudden act of anxiety. "_No_, sorry, don't answer that."

"It's just a funny song to play to get you in the mood." John said, smiling up at Sherlock and trying to wipe the anxious look from the man's face "I mean...it's really..." John trailed off, on the cusp of explaining to Sherlock the song was heavily clichéd and that if you played it for your lover you were more likely to get laughed at and _then_ shagged...

Except...

John didn't want to ruin it for Sherlock, didn't want to prejudice him against it. This wasn't something Sherlock had ever experienced before- playing a silly song in the hopes of getting laid. John had fucked to the song a few times since he was a teenager- funny, stupid shags where he and his partner had giggled through the song before things turned strangely erotic. But Sherlock hadn't. He'd never had that.

"Want to try it?" John asked, perfectly serious, and Sherlock literally gasped, his jaw dropping. In another situation, it would have almost been comical.

He was silent for a few seconds, before his throat bobbed a few times. "...Sex?" His voice was shaking and he tried again. "You mean...you want to try sex with me?" At the very suggestion, his heart had picked up pace, speeding ahead and leaving him lightheaded. He wanted John on top, Sherlock decided. He wanted to be pressed down and _consumed_ and he realized he didn't have any lubricant- _stupid_! He should have bought some- a lot- after the other night but he hadn't thought- _He_ hadn't thought. It was galling.

No matter, Sherlock decided, eyes flicking from side to side as he worked it out. They could simply use the olive oil again. There was plenty left and it smelled nice and was adequately slippery.

"I thought you might try giving me a hand job again." John suggested lightly, unaware of the aroused turmoil Sherlock was experiencing.

"I..." Sherlock blinked, features contorting in a visage of confusion.

"You don't have to. You don't have to do anything, I just thought…" John hurried to add and Sherlock shook his head.

"No. That's…no, I can." He took a shuddering breath, still slightly confused and disappointed. He'd thought…well. Never mind. "...I can try that."

Looking a bit like a fish out of water, Sherlock shrugged off his dressing gown and made his way closer to John who smirked and pressed something on the CD player to make the 'sex song' play on repeat. He turned the volume up a fair bit too, as the rainstorm became almost deafening, battering the windows and hissing against the walls of the flat.

While John resumed his seat, Sherlock snagged the bottle of oil from the kitchen, returning to the sitting room and dithering, uncertain, in front of John before finally sinking to his knees. He cleared his throat, staring at the towel John still had over his groin.

"Well. I'll just...shall I?" Sherlock gestured at the towel and John grinned, letting him carefully remove it and place it to the side. John's cock, half hard in anticipation, flexed at the sudden rush of air and Sherlock sat back on his heels, watching, extending one finger to give the organ a speculative tap.

John flinched at the inquisitive, violin-calloused fingertip that began dotting and delicately stroking across his exposed glans. He swallowed hard, watching Sherlock's fingers run softly along his cock, again and again, the barest of teasing caresses. John's cock twitched its way to full hardness- the sight of Sherlock on his knees, all his concentration centered on his cock doing things for John's libido which were dark and sinful. Sherlock's eyes were fixed, with almost scary concentration, on every little pulse of blood in the veins of John's rapidly-hardening shaft, every minuscule ooze of clear fluid at the tip, every unconscious bob of the plump dark member. It was unnerving.

Sherlock reached for the bottle of oil and drizzled some over John's erection, covering his balls with the fragrant fluid before setting it to the side, his eyes never leaving John's crotch.

"Just...be gentle." John warned, before Sherlock's hand, appearing disconcertingly large around his cock, slowly eased down, coating him fully with the oil. John moaned, hips flexing up into the caress.

Sherlock was flushed a shocking pink which made his wide, pale eyes even more striking in comparison. "Um, can I just...just once? Now?"

"What?" John's voice was ragged and Sherlock, without waiting for permission, bobbed his head down, eyes flicking up to John's, and pressed a kiss against the head of his cock.

Sherlock jolted back in surprise when John gasped explosively, his eyes going wide and shocked, hips stuttering upward.

"God, yes..._yes_, you can...do that." He groaned. "Hand...hand and kisses...God. Yes."

Sherlock brought his lips to John's cock again, pressing another delicate kiss to the head and stroking slickly down the shaft. John hissed, thighs flexing to either side of Sherlock, and his next breath almost sobbed out.

"Yes, just like that..._fuck_, Sherlock..." He encouraged, voice ragged, and Sherlock, buoyed with success, kept going. He stroked John's cock slowly, his lips sucking kisses onto the exposed head.

"_God_, Sherlock...perfect..." John's damp hair brushed the back of the armchair, leaving sweet, mint-scented smears on the rich fabric. His bare legs twitched as Sherlock rested his free hand on one, warm thigh, rubbing slowly, and John grunted in gratitude and pleasure.

Sherlock suppressed a pleased smile, proud he was doing so well. He kept his eyes trained on John's face, watching every single play of pleasure across his lined features, his own cock throbbing, demanding attention, but he ignored it, focused on pleasuring John.

Feeling daring, Sherlock opened his mouth and pressed a kiss against the very tip of John's erection, swirling his tongue over the slit, tasting the combined flavours of olive oil and pre-come. He was rewarded with a rough hand suddenly gripping his dark curls, and a throaty sigh of pleasure that pushed him disturbingly close to his own climax. He gave a stuttered little cry, breath gusting over John's cock, hand still working over it-

"Oh, shit, shit, _shit_!" John cursed and suddenly the fingers in Sherlock's curls were yanking his head back as thick ropes of come spurted from John's cock, narrowly missing Sherlock's face. Sherlock stared at the opaque pools of semen collecting on John's skin, grinning, triumphant.

He winced as John continued to yank at his hair, though, hips bucking and head thrown back as he rode the waves of his climax. Just as the grip became too painful and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, the fingers relaxed, and John blinked open dazed eyes, breathing out an apology. "Sorry, sorry. Oh..._fuck_...that was brilliant..."

"You looked...you looked...very good." Sherlock admitted in a fiendishly-deep baritone murmur, eyeing the warm drops of come on John's quivering stomach hungrily. John huffed out an awkward laugh, shaking his head and reaching for the towel, wiping himself off and scrubbing at the lingering traces of come.

Sherlock bit his lip, mentally sighing.

"Your turn." John tossed the soiled towel to the side and gave Sherlock a mischievous look as the 'sex song' began playing again.

"Um...no, not that..." Sherlock demurred quickly, nibbling his full bottom lip and looking worried. John frowned but shoved his worry to the side.

"Why don't you touch yourself for me, then? I didn't get a chance to see you the other night in my room and...I'd like to watch you make yourself come." John's voice was low and wicked, interested, and Sherlock debated. That seemed fine but…

"My bottoms stay on." He said, voice hard and brooking no argument. He expected John to sigh, to say he was stupid and if that was the case then he didn't want to watch- he would be able to see anything that way…but John nodded, leaning forward in his chair, eagerly looking at Sherlock, anticipating a show.

"W-..um...where do you want me?" Sherlock asked, the pink flush on his sharp cheekbones spreading down his pale throat and decorating his lean clavicles.

John's gaze flicked behind Sherlock. "In your chair."

Sherlock moved back, leveraging himself up onto his expensive leather armchair and smoothed his sweaty palms down his thighs to stop them from shaking.

"Don't." He said when he saw John reaching for the small blanket on the back of his own chair, obviously about to cover himself up. "I...I want to see you…while I do it." He murmured, hoping John wouldn't say it wasn't fair that Sherlock got to see him naked and he didn't, etc. John, though, smiled, and leaned back in his chair, eyes dark and trained on Sherlock, waiting.

"Oh god." Sherlock muttered to himself, briefly wishing he hadn't started this whole thing…before raising his eyes, normally so sharp, but now languid and tentative, to John. "You won't laugh?"

"Of course not- why would I laugh, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head, pressing his lips together, and, after another quick glance at John who gave him an encouraging smile…slipped his hand beneath the waistband of his pyjamas. He exhaled shakily as he wrapped his still slick hand around his cock, the olive oil providing a pleasant alternative to his own precome. He set up a quick, business-like rhythm, trying to rub as quickly as he could to get it over with, struggling to focus…but got nowhere. Breathing unsteadily, Sherlock sped his hand up but it didn't help his climax, which remained steadfastly nowhere. He whined very softly in desperation.

"What wrong?" John's voice broke through his shame and embarrassment and Sherlock shuddered, hand stilling on his cock.

"I don't...it's..." he closed his eyes, not wanting to disappoint John but thinking it might be for the best for him to just stop-

"I want you to _touch_ yourself, Sherlock." John said and Sherlock's eyes snapped open to stare at him. "Touch yourself. Start stroking your cock. Slowly."

Sherlock, hunched awkwardly in his chair, frowned, and with one hand between his legs, nodded and acquiesced. He pulled on himself with slow, steady strokes, feeling that he would love to climax soon and have this whole embarrassing ordeal over and done with, but physiologically, he was still a long way behind.

"_Perfect_, Sherlock. That's _perfect_." John crooned, avidly watching the rhythmic flex of Sherlock's hand beneath his pants. He could see the barest outline of Sherlock's cock and his tongue snaked out to lick his lips. He couldn't wait to see it. "Close your eyes." He instructed and Sherlock obeyed, his hand still stroking slowly over his cock. "Breathe...keeping breathing...does it feel good? Tell me how it feels."

"You feel..._it_ feels good." Sherlock whispered with a shuddery groan, his hand speeding up a little, a tiny wet gush dampening the front of his silk pyjama bottoms.

John caught his slip and his eyes narrowed, a smile playing around his lips which Sherlock, his eyes closed, didn't see. "What're you thinking of, Sherlock?"

"I can't." Sherlock mumbled, his brow wrinkled deeply, his expression such an amalgamation of concentration and discomfort that John had never seen.

"Yes, you can." John encouraged, soothingly quiet in the flat. "Tell me, sweetheart, tell me what that great, amazing, fantastic brain is thinking of. I want to hear what you're fantasizing about…. Tell me."

Sherlock moaned. "I'm...I'm in you" He gasped, hips jerking slightly. "I'm inside of you and it feels...amazing."

"In me where?"

"In...where you probably won't let me." Sherlock admitted.

"Try me." John almost growled from across the room and Sherlock squirmed, his hand moving faster.

"In your arse." Sherlock's face _flamed_ with colour at verbalizing that but, at the low, encouraging moan from John, he licked his lips and continued, his features easing their crinkled anxiety as he started to settle himself into his fantasy. "You're...a-above me...r-riding me...pressing me into the mattress and I'm...oh-" He broke off, body straining to the slickened strokes of his own hand. "...I...I've never been inside anyone...but...I want to..." Sherlock grimaced, tugging at himself even more harshly, his fist a silken blur beneath his pyjamas. "Oh..._fuck_...John...you...weigh me down." he garbled, gasping for breath as he desperately pursued his climax. "You're…riding me, g-getting yourself off on my c-cock."

Sherlock's hips began pumping upward, a shaky desperate rhythm, imagining it was John he was thrusting in to as he felt himself sliding closer and closer.

"Yes...that's it, Sherlock. Fuck, yes, that's it." John filthily encouraged, mouth dry at the debauched sight in front of him. "Fuck me. Oh, Christ, fuck me harder."

The detective gasped, John's words like a heavy punch to his gut. "_I'm gonna come_," he warned, his body sliding down his armchair and practically onto the floor as his body heaved. He moaned, kneeling awkwardly on the living room floor, fisting himself with brutal, blurry speed, struggling to reach his peak.

"Fuck, yes, Sherlock." John grit out through clenched teeth, taking a chance on what he thought Sherlock would want to hear. "Come on..._come_ _in me_."

Sherlock shouted, surprised, and came, his release dampening his pyjama bottoms and dripping, warm and sticky, onto his legs. He shivered, gasping, suddenly aware of how awkwardly he was positioned, on the floor like a slut, his mind unhelpfully supplying all the things he'd said to John...

Embarrassment swamped over him, stealing the glow from his post orgasmic state and making him feel foolish. He sucked in a few much-needed inhales, then, after the obvious aftershocks had left his shivery muscles, he pulled himself upright with tremulous arms, and a loud grunt, back onto his armchair.

"…May I borrow your towel please?"


	5. New Haircut

**This chapter is a direct continuation of the previous one. Thanks for reading. Enjoy :)**

* * *

Dizzy and self-conscious, Sherlock took the proffered towel and quickly made his way to his bedroom. He sighed as he removed his third (and last) pair of come-soaked and ruined pyjama bottoms and wiped himself down. His cheeks were still burning as he headed to the bathroom and cleaned himself up properly, chucking the semen-stained towel in the washing basket. His mind unhelpfully supplied all the filthy, ridiculous things he'd said to John, playing the naughty confessions on an endless loop in his head.

Had John been laughing at him the whole time? He'd said he wouldn't laugh but...how could he not have? The things Sherlock had said had been the epitome of stupid. Awkward. Silly.

"_You weigh me down..."_

What sort of statement was that? Sherlock wondered if he could somehow live in the little loo for the next few days because at the moment he couldn't go back and face John. Not after…all that.

Lost in his self-recriminations, Sherlock was startled by the sound of the doorbell. He listened as John scurried upstairs to find some clothes before answering the door, although they both knew he needn't have worried. Mrs. Hudson was already awake and she always collected and delivered their post, no matter what time, day or night.

Steeling himself, taking a deep breath and trying to will his blush away, Sherlock nipped into his own room for clean clothes, feeling as if he were donning his own personal suit of armour as he finished buttoning the stiff shirt and adjusted his cuffs.

Two minutes later, a fully-dressed John tapped on Sherlock's bedroom door, sounding thrilled. "Sherlock? You in there?"

Sherlock nodded, realized John couldn't see, and cleared his throat. "Yes."

"We've just received a… a _summons_- don't really know what else to call it- to a disturbingly high-class party." John chuckled, turning the heavily gilded, stunning card over in his hands. "You should see how extravagant this invitation is."

Sherlock wrenched the door open and, avoiding looking at John, plucked the needlessly elaborate card from his hands. He frowned as he scanned it then handed it back to John with a derisive snort.

"Problem, Sherl?"

Sherlock glanced at John's laughing eyes, his amused grin, and gnawed at the inside of his bottom lip. "I know for a fact you have enough acting ability to _pretend_ you're not amused. I'd appreciate it if you used it." He snapped, striding to the living room, quite frankly not knowing what he was doing in there. He turned off the irritating CD player and thus the 'sex' song, and sank decisively into his armchair.

"What're you talking about?" John asked, following after Sherlock, the invitation still clutched in his hand. "This?" He brandished the card. "Because you're right- I can't help but be amused at the thought of you in a roomful of stuffy, arrogant, overbred people, deducing everyone to within an inch of their lives and making them all uncomfortable."

"I do that to everyone, all the time, and you know it. You don't laugh, though. You usually scold me and tell me to be nicer. Please don't pretend, John. I _know_ why you're laughing."

John blinked at Sherlock, perplexed. "No, I don't. Why am I laughing?"

"Because of what I said!" Sherlock burst out angrily. He supposed this was another layer of humiliation John wanted to add, another way of poking fun at him by making him explicitly say it. His insides squirmed. He remembered this tactic from childhood days when bullies had cornered him in deserted hallways and made him spell out why they thought he was a freak.

"What you-"

"_Said_. Yes, _Oh, John, I'm inside you. You weigh me down. I'm going to come_." Sherlock gritted his teeth, spitting the words out. "I know you're laughing about it so you can just _stop_. We both know I sounded absurd so yes, very clever, the joke's on me- now drop it."

"...Sherlock...give me twenty seconds to tell you why you're wrong? Before you storm off in an unfounded huff?" John asked, smiling. He crossed the room, placing his hands on Sherlock's red-hot cheekbones, his palms actually heating up with the embarrassed fire that was kindled in them.

"You're wrong. All right? I wasn't making fun of you earlier- or now...or...ever. What you said earlier...Sherlock, it was incredibly arousing. Ok? Incredibly." John leaned closer, pitching his voice lower. "It was all I could do not to go over there, push your hands away, and do it myself. Touch you myself. So, no. I wasn't laughing at you. Don't be foolish."

Sherlock's eyes darted between each of John's own sparkling blue ones, trying to find fault in what he'd said, looking for the vaguest hint of a lie... but there wasn't any.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh." John's thumb swiped over Sherlock's cheek and, just as quickly, the reason for his blush turned into something else entirely.

"Would you…kiss me? A bit?" Sherlock asked abruptly, his pale eyes flicking down to John's thin lips.

"I don't know..." John grinned, murmuring teasingly. "What's in it for me if I do?"

Sherlock squirmed, refusing to let himself be aroused by John's low, joking voice. "John-"

His rebuke was cut short as John had mercy on him, pressing their lips together, his hand gliding up to tug at Sherlock's curls and angle his head, deepening the kiss. Sherlock floundered as John's lips triggered a fresh rush of serotonin, dopamine, and oxytocin. He tentatively prodded the tip of his tongue, inexperienced but hopeful, against John's mouth. He felt John hesitate….and then John was opening his mouth, his own tongue coming out to twine delicately against Sherlock's. Sherlock shivered, a low whine tearing from his throat as John's tongue pushed past his own, flicking against the roof of his mouth.

Sherlock groaned as John pulled away, slumping in his chair as John straightened and picked up the invitation again, seemingly not as affected as Sherlock.

"Well. We've got some work to do before we go to this."

"Go?" Sherlock's eyebrows snapped together and he gave John a look as if he'd gone mad. "We're not-"

"_Yes_, we're going, Sherlock. It's being given by Lord Ingram and he's invited us - well, _you_, as his special guest-"

"All the more reason _not_ to go." Sherlock muttered.

"He was a good client - a well-_paying_ client, remember, and he'll have lots of arrogant, well-paying friends for us to make contact with. So." John finished. "We're going. Think of it as a business venture."

Sherlock scowled childishly and opened his mouth to complain further, when John leaned close to his ear and murmured in a deep, sultry tone that he had frustratingly little experience with.

"I _promise_ I'll make it worth your time if you go."

"How?" Sherlock asked breathlessly, fingers curling into John's shirt and trying to pull him closer.

"I'll tell you..." John promised "..._after_ you get a haircut."

"_What_!?".

"A haircut." John repeated, his expression brooking no argument. "You've let it get too long."

Sherlock pouted up at John, fingering his curls, tugging at them to their full length before letting them spring back.

"This is the longest I've ever seen your hair. An inch or two longer and it'll be touching your shoulders."

Sherlock smirked. "I know what you think of my hair, John. You love it because it's soft and tactile and shiny. You only want me to cut it because of some misguided social rule."

"It's not a misguided social rule for a man to keep his hair cut." John gave Sherlock a wicked look. "I like it when you keep your hair shorter. It makes you look manlier."

"So…so…'manly' isn't...a problem?" Sherlock questioned, ruffling his thick curls self-consciously.

"Of course not. Why would it..." John trailed off, understanding flashing across his face. "Are you…are you trying to make yourself look...Oh, _Sherlock_."

Sherlock glanced away as John knelt in front of him but John's rough hand forced Sherlock to look at him. "No, Sherlock, manly isn't a problem. Manly is...great. Fucking fantastic actually."

"I'm not trying to look _womanly_." Sherlock explained, rather hating the way John's eyes had gone all soft and pitying. "I honestly just can't be bothered to get a haircut." He cleared his throat. "Still, you're not used to...'manly.'"

"No, I'm not." John agreed. "But I can't wait to _get_ used to it." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Now. We're going to this thing and you need a haircut. So, come on." He slapped Sherlock's knee encouragingly. "Let's get going."

Before Sherlock knew it, he was in his designer shoes, being shoved out the front door by a firm, strong hand on his arse, onto a pavement drenched in the abated rainstorm that had pounded Baker Street just ten minutes earlier. John took a deep breath of the damp, strangely-comforting pollutant taste of the London morning air. Dragging Sherlock into an impromptu, deep kiss, he pulled back with a clownish grin.

"I know it's early and no hairdressers are open yet. But I know someone who owes _me_ a favour." He winked and dragged the speechless detective off through grimy puddles to their destination.

* * *

John curled his hands into fists on his lap, trying valiantly to keep them to himself, and eyed Sherlock's newly cut hair for the umpteenth time in the past hour. It was shorter than he'd seen it in a long time, the curls barely an inch long and slicked into a fashionable style.

John wanted to mess that style up. He wanted to run his fingers through the gelled curls and ruffle them, _tug_ at them, and listen to the way Sherlock moaned while he did it.

He'd seen Sherlock with his hair cut before...this time, though, they were together. He was _allowed_ to touch Sherlock. Encouraged even, given the way Sherlock acted- as if he couldn't get enough of John's attention.

John gave himself a mental shake, telling himself to stop acting like an idiot, and forced his thoughts to go elsewhere. His dark blue eyes focussed indistinctly out the windscreen of the taxi, watching the grey yet infinitely lively panoramas of central London flick rapidly and colourlessly past them. They were almost back to the flat and he didn't want Sherlock to pick up on his deviant thoughts and get...well, the wrong idea.

Sherlock, looking ostensibly calm, his pale eyes watching the dirty, rain-slicked streets out of his own window, was very much aware of John's state of mind. He could sense- practically _taste_- the quivering anticipation and heady lust afflicting John, barely kept in check by his wavering, gentlemanly restraint.

Sherlock's mind buzzed with a fevered, haphazard mantra of immediate actions to be taken as soon as they arrived at the flat.

1 - _Get home. Go to bedroom._

2 - _Close curtains. Remove apparel._

3 - _Be ravaged by John Watson. _

Sherlock experienced some qualms about number two. The idea of removing his clothes made his stomach knot up and a dreadful nervousness threatened to quench his arousal. But John _wanted_ to see him naked. He'd said as much earlier. And John doubtlessly wouldn't ravage Sherlock if he kept his trousers on.

Well, he thought sardonically, it wouldn't even be _possible_ at that point. Sherlock knew he was being as stupid as he always claimed Anderson was...and he jutted out his chin, determined to overcome it.

Still, closing the curtains was a must. Near-darkness would make things considerably easier. There was no way he'd be able to do this in any kind of functional light intensity.

By the time the cab pulled up outside 221B, neither man was bothering to disguise his rapid breathing and tangible arousal.

Sherlock got out of the taxi first, stepping straight into an oily, tar-black puddle in a pothole of the road…and didn't even care.

_This is it_, he thought in a dizzying panic, the words blooming and gyrating frantically in a psychedelic dance in his Mind Palace. _It's finally happening. Right now._

He took a gasping, shaking breath and hurried to the door, uncharacteristically fumbling with his keys as John paid the cabbie, the noisy things jingling and rattling tellingly in his hands. Finally, Sherlock wrenched the door open and stepped through, turning to find John behind him, closing the door, his eyes trained on Sherlock, dark with intent. Sherlock's mouth went dry.

"I'll…I'll just...go upstairs and...get everything ready...Just be a moment." Sherlock said, racing up the stairs, intent on closing every curtain he could once he got upstairs before shedding his clothes.

Sherlock was in the middle of the living room, in a stifling, deep gloom, and down to just his trousers and pants…when John cautiously made his way into the dimness, eyes dilated and intense as a hunting lion at twilight, fixated on its prey.

Fingers freezing on his flies, Sherlock cleared his throat. "John...I'm ready. You can…take me to bed."

He couldn't see John's _exact_ expression in the dimness of the room, but Sherlock saw John cock his head to the side, as if he didn't understand. "What?"

Oh, this was _so_ trying. Sherlock winced and looked down to where his fingers were still hovering over his zip. "I know you want to. You were thinking about it all the way here." He paused for breath, anticipation making him breathless. "So...take me to bed." Sherlock tried to purr the last part, as he'd seen a few of the actresses in John's porn do a few times, seductive and coy…but he thought he may have failed as the remark didn't seem to affect John, who casually started removing his shoes, leaning with one hand against the doorframe and toeing them off with agonizing slowness before kicking them to the side.

"John? I can't wait much longer." Sherlock admitted throatily.

"Wait for what?" John asked, straightening and moving towards Sherlock, his fingers picking open the buttons of his shirt as he walked.

"For you." Sherlock swallowed hard against the lump of pure need in his throat as he watched John bare himself, his hands coming up to smooth down the expanse of John's chest. John hummed approvingly in his throat and Sherlock pressed his hands flat against John's skin, closing his eyes at the sensation. Warm. Smooth. Springy hair tickling against his palms. Sherlock could almost _smell_ John's arousal.

"Christ, John...are you going to...do it?" he asked, voice breaking embarrassingly before he cleared his throat. John's hands rose to sink themselves into Sherlock's dense, dark, short curls, massaging tenderly but with a tellingly shaky impatience.

"Do what?" John asked again, pulling at Sherlock's hair and bringing him down for a brief kiss, the caress fanning the already roaring flames of Sherlock's arousal even higher. "What do you think I'm going to do, Sherlock?"

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, bringing their bodies flush against each other, sighing when his erection pressed against John's hip. "I think...you're going to...fuck me."

"I'm going to be on top. Is that what you've decided." John didn't even bother enunciating his statement as a proper question, nipping and biting eagerly, _teasingly,_ at Sherlock's full lips, relying on the guidance of the warm huffs of breath and the heat of skin in the darkness to locate Sherlock's delicious mouth.

"_Yes_." Sherlock whispered- the idea of John taking him, fucking him, making him impossibly harder. He impatiently pushed his cock against John, grunting eagerly as John kissed him. And John was agreeing, was going along with it. John was going to fuck him.

Sherlock's head spun. Would he do it here- on the floor of the sitting room? Sherlock on his back, his legs wrapped around John's waist while John thrust into him? Sherlock could almost _feel_ the way the carpet would scrape across his back, leaving stinging burns that would only heighten the pleasure. He kissed John back, as hard as he could, hips moving faster against him, frotting against him fervently.

With a strangled, surprised moan, Sherlock suddenly found himself being shoved back forcefully across the room, supported completely by John's strong arms, and slammed down roughly into his armchair. His sight weakened in the darkness, making him dizzy with blind excitement, Sherlock heard John chuckle before settling himself in Sherlock's lap, his legs spread to either side of Sherlock's thighs, and ground his hips down in a few excruciating rotations.

"Are you sure _this_ isn't what you'd prefer?" John's voice was rough and strained as he continued grinding his arse against Sherlock's cock. It was an incredible feeling- much better than rutting against John's hip. The curve of his arse was plush, inviting Sherlock to thrust up against it which he did, over and over.

"J-John..." He panted, all rational thought gone, the heavy thickness of arousal stunning in its ability to strip away all his reserve and higher intelligence. "P-Please..."

"Please what? Is this what you want, Sherlock?" John asked again, ducking his head to nip and tug at Sherlock's earlobe. "Because if it is...I'd let you. I'd let you _fuck_ me…I'd let you fuck me so hard- and come inside me…"

"Oh...oh, _no_." Sherlock uttered out of the blue, his deep voice strained with dread and John hissed in pain as Sherlock's fingernails, unexpectedly sharp, dug viciously into his sides. Sherlock tensed beneath him, his breath ceasing for a few stunned, worrying seconds, before a grating, wet wail eased itself past gritted teeth. A familiar, hot musk scented the humid air of the flat as Sherlock bucked hard a few times against John, sobbing in what sounded like frustration…as well as a brutal climax.

John froze, his hands buried in gorgeously dishevelled curls, blinking in surprise as Sherlock shuddered beneath him one last time before going still. Sherlock slumped against the chair, eyes closed, face turned away from John, radiating shame- the rigid line of his body against John spoke to that.

It seemed totally redundant to ask whether Sherlock had just come. Licking his lips, sitting on Sherlock's over-heated lap, John eased back very slightly from his lover's spent crotch, still clothed in designer trousers and underwear. It was imperative, John instinctively felt, to control the situation before Sherlock had a crisis.

"Um...Bedroom? Bit cramped here, yeah?" John grinned when Sherlock's eyes flicked open, cast down and to the side.

"John...I-"

"Bedroom." John repeated firmly, pulling at Sherlock's hand. He thought the taller man would resist him, refuse to come along…but finally Sherlock sighed and stood, meekly following behind John down the hall to his bedroom.

John closed the door behind them and turned to Sherlock. He hadn't had a chance to close the curtains in this room and sunlight spilled through the window, dappling everything in rich tones and giving John a beguiling view of the wet stain on the front of Sherlock's trousers.

"Christ, Sherlock." he exclaimed helplessly, tongue coming out to lick at his lips, throat bobbing with a desirous swallow. He reached out and brushed his fingers against the wet spot, lips parting as he felt the damp warmth of Sherlock's release.

"I did that." He murmured, rather stunned Sherlock had come so quickly, just from John muttering filthy things to him.

"Yes, you did." Sherlock snapped, two bright spots of colour on his cheeks. "And if you're going to laugh you can just-"

John grabbed him before he could spin away and, apparently, kick John from his room. "I'm not going to laugh." He said, eyes dropping once more to the evidence in front of him. "I think...Yeah, that's one of the hottest things I've ever seen."

"You keep saying that. I think you just get off on other people's...inadequacies." Sherlock muttered, staring out the window and itching to get out of the exposing, if grimy, light pouring through the window. He tried to distance himself mentally from the situation at hand. _If you added coal dust to milk, would that match the colour of this wretched sky?_

"Inadequacy?" John repeated and Sherlock yelped slightly when John's hand tightened against his damp crotch. "_This_ isn't inadequacy, Sherlock. This is me being fucking _good_. This is you wanting me so fucking much you- _you_ - can't control yourself." He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing possessively over the soft ridge of Sherlock's cock through the fabric. "Do you think I'm inadequate when you make me come?"

Sherlock winced, shooing John's hand away from his very over-sensitised shaft. "I wanted to have sex with you." he said simply, glancing around the room and biting the inside of his mouth as his brow crinkling. "I ruined it."

John snorted fondly, carding his fingers through those lovely curls and turning Sherlock to face him. "There's more than one way to have sex, Sherlock. We can still...you can still get me off. Only if you want to." He hurried to add, not wanting Sherlock to feel obligated.

There followed a long thirty seconds of swollen silence and Sherlock's laboured breathing. "...What did you want?" He asked, sounding distinctly troubled and irritable.

John shrugged. "Whatever you like."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he gave John a look.

"Fine. I thought...I really enjoyed what you did earlier- when you used your hand and your...mouth." John's eyes strayed to the object in question and, for the first time since his disastrous blunder in the sitting room, Sherlock felt faint stirrings of interest again. "I thought you might...do it again?"

"I practiced." Sherlock announced abruptly, before looking shell-shocked, wide-eyed, and adorably lost.

John paused before sinking down on the side of the bed, giving Sherlock a wickedly amused look. "You've practiced?"

Sherlock nodded, walking over to John on wobbly legs and kneeling in front of him, sighing in pleasure when John's hands immediately leapt up to run through his hair. Sherlock was starting to think John had developed a hair fetish.

"Did my hair start this?" Sherlock asked, visibly calming as he gave his delightful, honest grin, melting into the caresses like a spoilt lap cat.

John laughed, scrubbing his hand through the shortened locks before releasing them. "Sort of. Seeing you like this- hair cut short...you look handsome." His eyes twinkled as he leaned down to steal a quick kiss. "And I realized...you're _mine_."

"You only just realised that?" Sherlock laughed softly, spreading his hands on John's clothed thighs, kneading the denim subconsciously.

"Well, it's only been true for a week." John admitted, hips shifting on the bed as he watched Sherlock's fingers splay against his clothing. "Still not used to it." he huffed out a quick breath, digging his fingers into the duvet to keep from reaching and freeing his cock from the confines of his jeans to hurry things along.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak- but closed it again just as quickly, instead lowering his eyes and schooling his long musician's fingers to slowly fiddle, as if with incompetence, at the button of John's jeans. Now that he was freed of the mind-melting arousal, he intended to tease John as much as he could, watch every little twitch and spasm, hear every gasp and plea.

John's relieved sigh when the button finally popped free was music to Sherlock's ears and he repressed his smile at the way John's body strained as he slowly...slowly...slowly lowered the zip of his jeans. He lowered his head, nosing his way past the zipper and rubbing his face against John's covered cock.

"_Oh…_"

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the straining fabric before pulling away and tugging at John's jeans. John eagerly lifted his hips, hitching his thumbs in the band of his pants and dragging those off as well, kicking them to the side and staring at Sherlock with undisguised _want_.

"I only practised with my fingers...practised having something deep in my throat." Sherlock said casually, his grey-green eyes fiendish, and his blush a wonderful pink rash across his sharp cheekbones. He nuzzled at the base of John's shaft, inhaling deeply, taking in all the information he garnered from mere scent, like a blind, hungry dog.

John moaned, hands fisting tight into the duvet again to prevent him from reaching out and taking what Sherlock was offering so sweetly...and naughtily.

"That's...that's good. Good place to start." John rambled, cock jumping as Sherlock stuck out his tongue and ran it up the side of the hard flesh. He rolled his tongue in his mouth, analysing the flavour, and John dropped onto his back with an agonized groan.

He watched John's chest rise and fall rapidly, his cock jerking in the cool air of the bedroom, and bit his lip, feeling a thrill at the idea of reducing John to such a glorious mess.

'What is it you want, John?" Sherlock murmured deeply. John gasped, his fingers spasming in the duvet as he cursed.

"Fuck...Sherlock..."

"I've managed to repress my gag reflex so it's only 12.2% efficient" Sherlock murmured seductively, before suckling with genuine pleasure on the base of John's shaft.

"Oh, Christ." John arched into the sensation, leveraging himself up onto his elbows so he could watch Sherlock lick and suck his way up his cock, eyes sparkling wickedly the whole time. "Oh, Jesus." John said weakly, cock flexing when Sherlock's hand wrapped around the base.

The sight of sordid, saliva-slicked lips around his cock, sucking enthusiastically, and entirely pleasurably, caused John to groan out a few unintended growls of bliss.

With a villainous grin, restricted by the suction around John's leaking tip, Sherlock sank his sharp fingernails once more into John's skin and, after a hefty inhale, he lowered his head and deep-throated John as if he had done it a hundred times before.

His victory was short-lived, however, as John gave a surprised shout and a reflexive thrust up into the slick, tight heat. Sherlock gagged around John's cock and quickly pulled off, eyes streaming. John immediately sat up, reaching for Sherlock and stuttering out apologies, his face red.

Sherlock coughed hard a few times, looking queasy. "Was that...not alright?"

"No...no, no. no. That was...God...that was perfect." John stumbled to explain, pulling Sherlock into a very awkward hug, inadvertently pressing him against his spit-soaked cock. "That was amazing you just...I wasn't expecting that..." John let out a shaky exhale, squeezing Sherlock again before releasing him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course...I was just…surprised. Let me try again."

"Not again." John said, pulling Sherlock away when he went to duck down again. "Not...not that deep, love. I don't want to hurt you and that...could seriously hurt you. Here." He grabbed Sherlock's hand and fisted it around his wet cock. "Like this. Just like this. God, I'm almost there after that anyway."

Sherlock snatched his hand back, grimacing. "I can do it. I want to taste you."

"You don't have to-"

"I want to." Sherlock gritted out. "I'm not a child."

"I didn't say you were-"

"Then stop coddling me and let me suck your cock!"

John sighed, then nodded in reluctant acquiescence. Sherlock immediately swooped down again and started sucking deeply and wetly on John's cock, with remarkable skill considering his previously non-existent experience.

"G-go slow." John cautioned, not wanting a repeat of earlier and willing his hips to remain still and not thrust. God, but Sherlock was good at this. John closed his eyes, wondering how Sherlock had got so good in so little time. Not that he was complaining but...oh, God...

"Do that again." John commanded breathlessly, and Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head of his cock, licking at the bead of moisture collected there. John blundered a hand into Sherlock's heavenly, dark curls, and gulped, his breaths starting to present a struggle as he fought his rapidly-rising orgasm. A few faint, closed-mouth moans and sobs, accompanying his tightly-closed eyes, betrayed his imminent climax.

"Might want to pull off." He said hurriedly, tugging lightly at Sherlock's hair but Sherlock sucked his cock deeper, swirling his tongue over and over the head- and John was lost.

He shouted when he came, a wordless expletive, spilling into Sherlock's mouth in short, quick bursts that left him shaking and gasping for air. He twitched and shivered through his orgasm, breathless and wordless for thirty seconds before blinking his eyes open. Sherlock's mouth was still on his cock, his eyes closed, tongue lapping up every molecule he could acquire from John's ejaculate, his hands traversing from John's body to his own temples, fingers poised in their 'Real-Life to Mind Palace transition' position.

John chuckled weakly, the sight just a bit too funny after his amazing orgasm, and Sherlock's eyes snapped open to gaze up at him.

"Enjoy that?" John asked, realizing it should be the other way around but...from the look of immense satisfaction of Sherlock's face, it was obvious who had enjoyed it more of the two. Sherlock languorously swallowed the last, hot remnants of John's release, pulling back from his spent shaft with a small, wet 'pop.' He grinned, his flushed face wrinkling beautifully and John stared down at Sherlock, feeling rather uncomfortable for a man who'd just got done receiving one of the best blow-jobs of his adult life.

"Next time," he said, cupping Sherlock's cheek and kissing his forehead, "I'm doing that to you."


	6. It's Raining

A frighteningly violent rumble of thunder helped John wake abruptly from the distressing dream he'd been suffering. He blinked in the darkness for a few seconds, gasping for breath, the dream replaying over and over in his head. John propped himself up with a tired sigh and rubbed his face- immediately freezing when he felt liquid on his nose, cheeks and chin. . He knew what it was like to wake up with tears on his face, but this was different. An irrational surge of panic flared in his gut and he tensed, the remnants of his dream rushing to the fore, half-expecting to smell the coppery scent of blood, taste it, metallic, in his mouth….before a cold drop landed on his forehead, making him jump.

Heart still racing, John fumbled for the bedside lamp, flicking it on and squinting against the sudden flood of light. He swiped at his forehead as another icy drop snaked its way down his face and he glanced up at his ceiling.

The plaster was drenched. Water dripped from multiple places all over the worn covering, leaving dark, damp patches on John's carpet. Water was even streaming in a steady line in one corner of the room onto John's dresser.

"Oh, _shit_." he muttered, throwing aside his duvet and shrugging on his dressing gown in a rush, his glow-in-the-dark alarm clock sternly informed him it was 5.40am. With a put-upon sigh, John made his way downstairs and through to Sherlock's bedroom door, knocking insistently

"Babe?" John clamped a hand to his mouth as if he could retract the pet name he'd unconsciously uttered. Hearing no scathing retort- for which he was thankful- he knocked again, his face flushed. "Sherlock?"

A sleepy murmur answered him and John pushed open the door, poking his head around and peering into the darkness.

"Sherlock? Sorry to wake you..." John trailed off as Sherlock sat up in bed, his sheet pooling in his lap, leaving his chest bare and almost glowing in the darkness.

"John." Sherlock's voice was rough with sleep and he rubbed his eyes, yawning. "Are you wanting morning sex?"

"What? No, that's not…" John stoically dragged his gaze from Sherlock's astounding bare chest. "We have a problem. There's a leak, it's dripping everywhere. I'm soaked."

"It's pre-ejaculate, John. I would've thought, as a doctor, you'd have known that." Sherlock replied, his voice still deep and groggy, eyes drooping visibly even from across the room.

_Christ_. "_No_, Sherlock, it's not- it has _nothing_ to do with my cock, ok?" John snapped. It was 5:42 am, he'd had a bad dream, he was sleepy and soaked and _not_ in the mood. "_Our roof_ has a leak."

"Mm. Sort it in the morning." Sherlock slurred, sighing happily as he sank back onto his pillow, hugging it dreamily, exhaling gustily.

John opened his mouth, fully intent on rousing Sherlock- only for the sound of a crash and a liquid-y sounding gush from the floor startled them both. The sound shook Sherlock out of his doze, leaving him sitting bolt-upright as John cursed violently.

Sherlock stumbled from his bed, hot on John's heels as they raced up the stairs- pausing abruptly when they got to the top. A large puddle of water was rapidly spreading from beneath John's bedroom door and, when John flung the door open, even more poured out.

The bedroom was a disaster.

Half the ceiling had collapsed, chunks of plasterwork and wood littering the bed and floor. Rain streamed in from outside, wetting everything in thick, cold rivulets.

"Oh my god." John weakly uttered, taking in the mess in front of him, turning his head at the sound of Mrs. Hudson's call asking if everything were all right, that she'd heard a crash.

"_Fuck_, what do we do?" John murmured to Sherlock in despair. "Please tell me you know a builder who owes you a favour."

"What's happened? What's happened?" Mrs. Hudson cried, knotting her robe hastily as she tottered up the stairs. "Sherlock, what've you done this time?"

Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth but John beat him to it.

"The roof's caved in Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had nothing to do with it." He gave his boyfriend a swift look. "Did you?"

Sherlock gave both John and Mrs. Hudson an injured look before stomping downstairs. John hoped he'd gone to get some towels.

"The roof?" Mrs. Hudson gasped when she took in the state of John's room, tsking over the mess and peering up at the ceiling, through which the stormy clouds over the city could be seen.

"Should I...call someone? I...this is new to me." John admitted, biting his thin bottom lip and staring with Mrs. Hudson up at the dark sky.

"Oh, no, dear." Mrs. Hudson patted John's hand, a worried frown on her face. "I'll call someone in the morning. I have a nephew who's very handy with construction and that sort of thing. I'm sure he'll be able to straighten this out."

Sherlock wordlessly reappeared, his arms full of towels, and Mrs. Hudson took one, spreading it ineffectually on the soaked floor.

"All your things will be ruined if you don't move them downstairs, John." She said. "You can put them in Sherlock's room until we get the roof fixed."

"It seems Fate has intervened in the form of a vindictive thunderstorm and a faulty ceiling." Sherlock grinned, turning with a flourish and heading towards his own bedroom, pleased. He'd been plotting different ways to get John to move into his room for days- the fact that John still insisted on sleeping in his own bed when they were together and Sherlock was making himself _incredibly_ available was galling.

Sherlock had barely breached the threshold, though, when he became aware of an insistent, and exponentially increasing, drip of water in the far corner of his room.

Frowning, he strode across the room (lit only by a milky, cloud-choked moon and feeble yellowish streetlights) and peered up at the spreading wet spot on his ceiling, getting a drop of water in his face for his efforts and grimaced.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He bellowed. "We have a problem."

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock scowled up at the weak, feather-grey dawn that was beginning to bleed into the watery, tremulous sky as he exited the taxi, huffing irritably. The disgruntled sound was drowned out by the continuous, furious downpour, a deluge that was only barely seasonal.

Slamming the door, Sherlock left John to deal with their impromptu luggage. He blinked raindrops from his eyes and wilting, dripping hair, shrugging his rapidly-soaking coat tightly around himself. He was about to expound his irritation, but soon realised that it couldn't be heard over the sizzling, cold Spring rainfall.

"Get over here and help me."

Sherlock barely heard John's angry command over the sound of rain hitting the ground and, deciding to pretend he hadn't heard it at all, Sherlock pulled his coat even tighter around himself and walked up the steps to the building's front door, ringing the bell and waiting.

He heard the slam of the boot and John cursing. There was an awkward noise of luggage hitting the pavement and splashing in a puddle.

Sherlock rang the bell again.

He was met with the disembodied voice of the security guard. Clearing his throat, he enunciated simply.

"Tell Molly Hooper Sherlock Holmes is here. Telling her that I'm all wet and slippery may speed up the response."

"_Sherlock_!"

John's angry shout was loud enough that Sherlock didn't think he could pretend not to hear it. He turned, affecting a look of surprise, to find John red-faced and irritated at the bottom of the stairs. There were suitcases tucked under each arm, two more dangling from each hand, and another three by his feet.

"Are you going to help me or just stand there, you berk?" John asked, his voice muffled by the rain but since Sherlock was staring right at him he couldn't ignore him.

"You're doing fine, John." He smiled at him, trying to look innocent but John's scowl darkened. He opened his mouth, no doubt to unleash a furious tirade at Sherlock, but at that moment, the front door buzzed and Sherlock turned to find Molly herself opening it for him.

Making use of his most manipulative acting abilities, Sherlock grinned his crinkly grin and ruffled his newly-short, soaked dark curls, before placing a hand on Molly's upper arm, leaning close to her. "I'm sorry for this inconvenience. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't _really_ need help."

"Oh- Oh, n-no, it's fine. More than fine, actually." Molly stuttered and Sherlock didn't miss the way Molly's eyes strayed to his hair and her cheeks flushed a dusky pink. It seemed John wasn't the only one affected by his hair. "I'm happy you're here. Not happy your flat's leaking!" She hurriedly explained, eyes widening. "That must be awful. I'm just...happy I can help."

Sherlock grinned at her. "Thank you for letting John and I stay here a few days."

"Oh, it's...it's fine." Molly replied weakly before glancing behind Sherlock. "Does John need some help?"

"Probably." Sherlock said bluntly, brushing past Molly and making his way upstairs as if he owned the place. He dumped his Belstaff on the landing and promptly peered into every room in the flat, eyes flicking about and taking in details that may be important.

Molly's flat was...nice. Nothing spectacular. Certainly nothing like 221B. But it was spacious, nicely fitted up and uncluttered. The scent of lemon cleaner lingered in the kitchen and living room, an even more chemical smell lingered in the loo, and Sherlock's nose twitched. It was obvious Molly had speedily tidied up after Sherlock's phone call earlier.

"Molly, how much are you being paid to advertise bleach products?" Sherlock asked, trying his hand at a joke- Molly usually appreciated his humour and he turned, expecting to find her behind him, surprised when she wasn't. Then he heard the heavy footsteps, two people, coming up the stairs at a very slow pace. Ah, good. She was helping John with the luggage.

Sherlock glanced into Molly's bedroom. It was more tasteful than he'd expected, the walls a subtle dusky pink, though there were still about fifteen different cuddly toys scattered about on various surfaces. Judging by her blog, she had few qualms about appearing childish, and had made no attempt to hide or even move them. He opened a few drawers, her bedside table, eyes flicking over the contents. He flashed a brief, amused grin at the lilo on the floor beside her bed, dressed with a deep-red duvet, presumably the most 'masculine' one she owned.

"Sherlock!" At John's angry shout, Sherlock turned, clicking off the bedroom light as he left, finding John and Molly in the foyer, both out of breath and red faced. Molly 's face brightened on seeing Sherlock...then grew worried.

"What were you doing in my bedroom?"

"Establishing perimeters and escape routes in case of murderous intruders." Sherlock replied with a straight face. "Why, what did you think I was doing?" He asked softly, with a devastating, smile, his imperfect teeth flashing perfectly in a shameless act of endearment.

Molly blushed and shot a furtive glance at John. "N-nothing. That seems sensible to do, now I think of it."

John snorted. "Sounds absolutely rubbish to me. You were just wanting to poke through her things, Sherlock. Behave."

"I haven't poked anywhere Molly hasn't given me permission to," Sherlock retorted, ruffling his wet curls once more, unaware he'd said the most suggestive thing yet. "Molly...I need to dry off."

"Oh. Right. Loo's just down the hall- well, you probably already know that." Molly replied, the pink on her cheeks deepening until it looked as though she'd been slapped. Sherlock gave her another grin and John huffed.

"Think I'll come dry off too." he said, taking Sherlock by the elbow and steering him down the hall, slamming the bathroom door behind them.

"What do you think you're playing at, out there?" John hissed angrily, making sure to keep his voice down. "Molly was kind enough to give us a place to stay for a few days while the repairs are being made and you're fucking flirting-"

"For the greater good, John. For the greater good." Sherlock smirked indulgently down at John's furious face, picking open the buttons of his rain-spotted purple shirt. "I'm simply giving her what she wants so this remains an enjoyable favour for her and not a chore. Besides, you're the one who insisted a hotel would be an irresponsible waste of money. _Honestly_, John, do you even understand how much money we have? How much I've left you?" He grimaced and flicked a long hand dismissively. "But I don't care about that now. I want to unpack. You noticed that the spare room only has a single bed? Do you think she would give us her bed for tonight? It's a double."

"Left...left me?" John asked, frowning, trying to keep his train of thought while Sherlock discarded his shirt, shimmying his hips to get his wet trousers off.

"Yes, in my will. Do keep up, of course I left you everything. Who else would I have left it to? Mycroft? He'd buy cakes and pastries and squander it in largesse."

"I...that's..." John blinked, trying to come to terms with what Sherlock had just told him. Sherlock had left him money? Had written it into his will? Sherlock, who had managed to work his trousers halfway down his thighs, paused, suddenly realizing he was stripping, was almost naked in front of John. He tugged at the wet fabric, unable to pull it back up and so crossed his arms in front of himself, shielding his exposed skin ineffectually.

"Could you just...go out for a bit...bring me my PJ's...and I'll see you in a minute?" He requested awkwardly.

"What?" John dragged his eyes away from where he'd been staring vaguely at Sherlock's bare chest and frowned at him. "What'd you say?"

"Just...go out and mollify Molly." Sherlock hissed, opening the door and grabbing John by the shoulder, shoving him outside and locking the door behind him.

* * *

The rain still poured steadily down over London that evening, lashing at the darkened windows and making everyone inside and out of the torrential downpour feel snug and grateful to be dry. Molly had made them a wonderful dinner (trying to show off her culinary skills) and even though John hadn't been able to eat the pork, being a vegetarian, Sherlock had devoured two helpings, making Molly beam with pleasure.

Sherlock had been planning to change into his pyjamas, before he remembered that he had managed to ruin the only three pyjama bottoms he owned. Well..._John_ ruined them, technically.

Afterward, they sat in silence in Molly's bright, cheery sitting room. At least, John had described it to Sherlock as bright and cheery but Sherlock remained dubious. There were pictures of cats on the wall.

Sherlock, bored with the inane sitcom playing, glanced at John with a devilish grin and glittering grey-green eyes, managing to convey his unspoken message: '_Don't get pissy, John. I know what I'm doing._' It was a message John had received many times before, with varying degrees of veracity.

"Molly. Would you care to make me a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked innocently, giving Molly a wide-eyed, entreating look.

"Of course." She smiled at him, jumping up and setting her cat, Toby, to the side. "John? Want one?"

"No. Thanks." John frowned at Sherlock. The genius could have gotten his own cup of tea instead of making Molly fetch and carry for him. He waited until Molly had hurried into her small but neat kitchen, and was about to expand vocally on his internal irritated monologue when Molly's black-and-white cat stepped onto his lap and gave his stomach a few loving head-nudges, distracting him. Sherlock, taking his reprieve, stood and followed Molly into the kitchen.

Molly busied herself with the kettle, picking a few flowery-decorated mugs from the cupboard and plucking teabags from the labelled ceramic tins beside the microwave. She jumped and barely restrained a yelp when she felt, more than heard, Sherlock's sultry baritone voice rumbling right beside her ear. The sound wound her up in such a pleasant way she was surprised her hair wasn't spontaneously reverting to its natural ringlets.

"I've been trying to get you alone." Sherlock muttered, careful to keep his voice pitched low. "I need something from you, Molly."

The pretty pathologist fumbled with the mugs, her slim hands shaking as she cleared her throat. Before she could reply, Sherlock murmured again, his voice deep and tantalisingly sinful. "It's just...there's something...I think we might need later. I don't know if you...have any...in your bedroom. I checked earlier but...I know people tend to hide these sorts of things." He continued, stepping closer to Molly so they wouldn't be overheard. They could hear the sounds of the television filtering in from the sitting room and Molly heard John shift on the sofa, sighing.

She swallowed heavily, her heart racing, feeling light headed. She'd hoped- when Sherlock had rang earlier and asked for a place for him and John to sleep for a few days- that something _might Please, God,_ happen but...she hadn't expected it so soon. And she hadn't even broken out her sexy pyjamas yet.

Feeling unbelievably flustered, but trying not to show it, she turned from the kitchen counter to look up and lock her chocolate-brown eyes with Sherlock's icy grey-green ones. She tried, _really_, to flick her gaze towards to the living room and see if John was listening, but quite frankly, she felt supernaturally rooted to the spot, and her focus was reluctant to shift. Only her mouth seemed functional, and she stuttered awkwardly, running a hand through her straightened hair in an irrational act of comfort, and attempted a display of confidence.

"What…what were you thinking?"

Sherlock smiled at her, pleased, and Molly actually felt her heart stop beating for a few seconds.

"I must confess that I don't actually have a lot of knowledge about things like this but I know later tonight things...will take a more..._intimate_ turn."

Molly's eyes went wide. _Intimate turn?_ Her hands came up to clutch at the counter behind her for support as she balanced on very wobbly knees.

"I was thinking...some..." Sherlock bit his plump bottom lip before continuing in an impossibly deeper, quieter voice, his stunning cheekbones colouring a beautiful pink as one large hand alighted on Molly's shoulder. "Some...lubricant. I don't have much experience and...I want to make sure it all...goes smoothly. As it were." he added, with a charming, self-conscious chuckle.

"Lubricant?" Molly repeated nonsensically, through numb lips. She could feel the warmth of Sherlock's hand through her top, on her shoulder heavy and strong. She resisted the urge to lean into the touch and tried to get her brain to focus. "You'll need…lubricant?"

"Yes. I've read people can get hurt without the proper..." Sherlock groped for the right word.

"Wetness?" Molly asked, taking a deep, stuttering inhale at all that implied, almost wanting to add that there wouldn't be a problem with wetness once they started.

"Yes." Sherlock beamed at her. "So...do you have any? I assumed you might own some...forgive me if I'm wrong." He grinned sweetly, fondness and anticipation obvious in his eyes.

"Y-yes. I have some." Molly breathed, managing to smile back at Sherlock. "I-"

"Good. I know John says I did a good job the last time I gave him a handjob but I think I may have injured him slightly. Although that may be something he likes when we have sex..." Sherlock trailed off, eyes going glazed and distant, thoughtful.

Molly felt as if the floor had been jerked from beneath her.

To her credit, it only took her eight seconds to find her (admittedly ragged and strained) voice. "What do you...J...what do you mean, 'John'?"

Sherlock frowned, shaking himself out of his daze. "Of course I said John. Who else would I have said? John's in the process of taking my virginity- well, _has been_ in the process, depends on how one defines 'virginity'-" Sherlock shook his head, not wanting to debate technicalities. "And I need lubricant so he can continue the job tonight. Why?"

Molly's pretty face twisted briefly as she struggled to control her confusion and hurt before stuttering bravely. "You...I thought...he always says he isn't...you know."

"Gay? No, I don't think he is. We haven't fully discussed it yet but I think he's bisexual. Sexuality is so fluid and changing anyway, there shouldn't be a box for one person or the other to have to squash themselves in."

"Oh." Molly bit her lip to keep it from doing something stupid- like buckle- and Sherlock frowned.

"I'm not worried about it." He tried to assure her, thinking that was the reason she suddenly looked so...out of sorts. "He's proven to me multiple times that he likes being with men. The enthusiasm he shows when he strokes me off is enough to persuade me-"

"_Sherlock!"_ John yelled, the sheer volume countering his short stature impressively. Sherlock whirled, smiling at the sight of John entering the kitchen with Toby on his shoulder. The cat, unperturbed by John's anger, was calmly and affectionately nibbling at his hair.

"What're you doing?" John asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed. Molly's mind was suddenly inundated with the mental image of John stroking Sherlock's -what she imagined- gorgeous cock and she felt herself flushing hotly.

"Sherlock, you are, right now, looking incredibly guilty." John muttered warningly. Toby, the visibly over-indulged cat, started licking his ear fondly.

"I was just trying to...lessen your discomfort later. I've already seen from my reconnaissance of the kitchen that Molly's out of oil."

"Out of. ..?" John's face flushed scarlet and he glanced guiltily at Molly. He knew that she knew and it was suddenly horribly awkward in the kitchen. Molly swallowed heavily, averting her eyes, embarrassment swelling and burning inside her body.

"I'll just...just go and get what you were asking for." She said feebly, edging out of the kitchen and making her escape.

* * *

Sherlock sighed resignedly as he watched a red-faced John drag the lilo from Molly's bedroom into the spare room.

"We _might_ be able to fit in a single bed." He said thoughtfully, perched on the edge of said generously-donated bed.

"If we don't, you can sleep on the floor." John threw the sheet and duvet Molly had given them at Sherlock's head, still embarrassed over Sherlock asking Molly- bloody _Molly Hooper_- for _lube_. He watched as Sherlock fiddled with the bottle, watching the liquid glide around inside. John's mouth went dry but he was determinedly _not_ turned on by that sight. He wasn't.

Sherlock held the half-empty bottle up to the weak light and watch the thick liquid swirl slowly within. Extending his left hand, he pumped a little of the flavoured lubricant onto the tip of his index finger, sucking it ponderously. He hummed, contemplating the flavour. "Nice. Cherry-flavoured is rather pedantic, predictable, but it will serve our purpose." He smiled at John. "I wouldn't want to use it when I sucked your cock, though. It would ruin the lovely flavour of your penis."

"Lovely?" John asked with a grin he'd been hoping to restrain. Picking open his shirt, he tossed it aside and sat on the bed beside Sherlock, nonchalantly moving his hands to his flies.

Predictably, Sherlock's eyes jumped to the movement and John watched pink suffuse his cheeks as he worked the fabric off his hips and down his legs. Sherlock rolled to his knees and shuffled forward on the lilo, placing his hands on John's hips. He was at the perfect height to nuzzle his nose against the rapidly forming bulge in John's pants lovingly, but John pulled away.

"_Ah-ah_, what's this, Sherl? Last thing I remember, you were flirting with someone else."

"I wasn't flirting." Sherlock protested, trying to nuzzle one more against his favourite place on John's body...but John shuffled away again, his eyes glinting.

"It looked like flirting to me."

"I was just...acting in such a way that I knew would be conducive to our needs..."

"You manipulated her to get what you wanted. I know that sums up your attitude to everybody, Sherlock, but it is, in actual fact, a bit not good to flirt with someone else in front of your partner." John, his face blank, slid down his underwear, kicked it away, and settled back on the comfortable mattress with a satisfied sigh, putting his hands behind his head. Sherlock's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes arrested by the sight in front of him, and he crawled onto the bed hesitantly, unsure if John were teasing him or honestly angry over what he'd done.

"I'm...sorry?" He asked, hands splaying on John's thighs and practically salivating (was it his proximity to John, the knowledge John was hard, or the anticipation of the act of sucking John's cock making his mouth water? Sherlock needed further evidence) at the sight of John's erect penis.

John snorted, closing his eyes, but a telling smirk pulled at his thin lips, sweetening his face exponentially. "Sherlock, get naked. Now."

"Why?"

"So I can do incredibly naughty things to you."

"A-are you going to keep your eyes closed?"

"_Nope_. Wasn't planning on it. Was planning on sucking your cock, actually, just as soon as you take your trousers off."

Sherlock's shock and undeniable arousal was frustratingly drowned out by panic. He glanced frantically at the light switch and was relieved beyond words to see it was a dimmer switch. With a grateful sigh that was almost a physical deflation, he twisted it to its lowest setting...which was still brighter than he would have liked.

John opened his eyes, frowning. "What're you doing?"

"Just...setting the mood." Sherlock lied, fiddling with the button of his trousers as he returned to the bed, any confidence he'd had wiped away with John staring at him. "That's what people do, don't they? In these situations? Lower the lights, or have candles burning, flower petals, soft music..." He trailed off when John rolled to his knees and, traversing the same path Sherlock had made earlier, shuffled over to him, boldly pressing his face against Sherlock's half- hard cock.

"You're rambling." John's voice vibrated through the fabric in a very distracting way. "What's wrong?"

Deciding to leave his shirt on- John hadn't said taking it off was a requirement to getting his cock sucked- Sherlock's fingers popped open the button and dragged down the zip of his trousers…but he made no further move. His face tingling and _burning_ with the effort of his anxiety and arousal, Sherlock swallowed, voice breaking in a way that John found irrationally irresistible. "...You...might not like it?" _You might change your mind about everything_.

"Why won't I like it?" John cocked his head to the side, gazing up at Sherlock and the visual- John on his knees in front of him, waiting to give him a blow job- made Sherlock's cock go embarrassing hard. At that angle, it was impossible to miss and John's eyes darkened, his tongue coming out to tease at his lower lip.

"I-" Sherlock broke off when John leaned forward, rubbing at his trapped erection teasingly. Sherlock shuddered, closing his eyes as John indulgently mouthed at his ever-hardening shaft like a hungry puppy at a teat. His hands gripped John's shoulders, in a schizophrenic display of both trying to restrain him and wanting to pull him forward.

Finally, he could take no more and, clenching his eyes closed, Sherlock peeled his trousers off his hips, letting them drop to the floor. He froze with his hands hovering over the waistband of his pants, unable to go further.

John's tongue traced the ridge of Sherlock's cock through the fabric, lapping at it, a convulsive shudder wracking Sherlock's entire body. It was like an electric current, tingly and pleasurable, coursing through his body.

"_Oh_." He had to look down, had to know what John looked like, if he were disgusted and trying not to show it, or intrigued, aroused-

John's eyes were trained on Sherlock's face, his tongue tracing the head of Sherlock's cock, watching every emotion flicker across Sherlock's face as he elicited it.

Nervously, Sherlock tried to speak, his voice cracking once more, which inexplicably make John flush. "...You might...have a bit of trouble doing it…sucking my…um…through a layer of fabric." He joked. "..And...I might fall over if I don't get to sit down soon." he admitted, his cheeks tarnished a fantastically lush, burnt pink that made John want to take a picture, take it to Dulux, and then paint the whole flat in that exact shade.

"Will you let me take these off then?" John snapped the waistband of Sherlock's pants, making him jump.

"Yes. If you…if you really want."

John grinned, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of Sherlock's pants and sliding them off. Sherlock's erection sprang free, bobbing in front of John's face, and he licked his lips without conscious thought.

Sherlock's knees gave out.

John grabbed his hips, skilfully twisting Sherlock onto the bed in a move Sherlock was more familiar seeing used on grubby, knife-wielding criminals, with far less comfortable results. _They_ usually ended up with concussion from a concrete surface - _he_ huffed as he was gently but firmly manhandled onto a soft mattress. Sherlock stared up at John with wide eyes, licking his lips nervously and John took the inadvertent movement as an invitation and kissed him, licking at Sherlock's lips and tracing them with his tongue, provoking a low moan from Sherlock.

"God, you're bloody gorgeous." John growled against his lips, hands splaying on Sherlock's cloth-covered stomach and moving lower, feeling his muscles bunch and contract at the contact. "I can't wait to have your cock in my mouth."

A small, choked, and highly undignified noise left Sherlock's throat, his hand gripping tightly onto John's wrist, once again subconsciously torn between dragging it away from his groin and forcing those strong little fingers to seize him and wank him to death.

"Can I?" John asked. "Will you let me, Sherlock?"

"Yes." Sherlock managed to gasp out, arching against John and closing his eyes, only to just as quickly open them again when John shifted, settling between Sherlock's wantonly spread thighs.

"Oh, _Christ_," Sherlock uttered, with an unrestrained tone of disbelief and underlying anticipation. "...John," he said quickly, "You don't have to."

John paused, eyebrows raised, and Sherlock blundered on.

"We- we can do something else. Anything else. I'll s-suck your cock and you can get me off with you hand- I love the way your hand feels. I've got lube- we can- there's frottage. Mutual masturbation. I'll-" Sherlock's frantic speech was cut off when John, smiling fondly, dipped his head and took the tip of Sherlock's prick in his mouth.

If Sherlock's thoughts had coalesced into any kind of attainable, conscious logic, he would've realised the sound he made then was even less dignified than the one before.

As it was, he yelped under his breath, both hands instinctively cupping the back of John's head and kneading as his hips began to writhe inadvertently but sensually. His thighs came up, bracketing John's body between them as John lowered his mouth the rest of the way down, until his nose was almost flush with the dark brown curls surrounding Sherlock's cock.

_Oh. Oh oh oh_. Heat. Wetness. Pressure. Sherlock's hips made tiny, abortive little thrusts into John's mouth and John, for the most part, _let him_ and- oh god. He was going to come. Sherlock could feel it, tingling at the base of his cock, surging through his testicles-

_No_. He ruthlessly tamped down on the feeling, sternly reprimanding himself. He _would not_ come so soon. He wanted to enjoy his first experience with oral sex, savour the build-up, not have it over with in a scant few seconds.

In an effort to distract himself, Sherlock tried to focus on calculating the pressure that his adductor muscles could feasibly exert in various conditions, squeezing his eyes tight shut, his fingers leaving John's scalp and instead clawing into the duvet. He tried to blot out the soft, wet suction noises that John's mouth was creating as he bobbed experimentally deeper, taking more of Sherlock's cock in his mouth and _sucking_.

His tight control almost shattered when John reached up and flicked at his right nipple through the fabric of his shirt, rolling the bud between his fingers. Sherlock's skin broke out in goose flesh, his hips jumping and he felt a spurt of pre-come well from the tip of his cock. He gasped when John hummed appreciatively, swallowing it and redoubling his efforts, bobbing his head more quickly and teasing at Sherlock's other nipple until Sherlock was a writhing mess on the bed.

His fingernails raked audibly on the bed and Sherlock's head fell back, knocking the wooden headboard noisily against the wall. He hissed repressed breaths through clenched teeth, grimacing as if in pain as compulsive, shuddery spasms brutalised the tight muscles of his thighs and stomach. He struggled to enunciate, feeling his orgasm pulsing, taunting, delicious, but refusing to break free.

"Ung…Need to...can't." he seethed, his skin shimmering with sweat and twitching intensively.

"What do you need?" John asked, pulling off Sherlock's cock, making him whimper at the loss and reach blindly down to grope at John, wanting him back.

"I...I don't...know?" Sherlock's hips shakily thrust up, cock bobbing with the motion, and John's hand wrapped around it, stroking quickly.

"Come on, love. Want to see you come. Come on, Sherlock."

"Would you swallow?" Sherlock asked abruptly, before he flushed an even deeper shade of embarrassed pink when he realised he'd vocalised that thought, and that his brain-to-mouth filter, dysfunctional at the best of times, was in fact now a heap of humiliation-attracting wreckage.

"Yes." John said, latching on to the idea and lowering his mouth to Sherlock's straining erection again, licking it. "I want you to come in my mouth, Sherlock...Come...come _in_ me."

It took another thirty seconds of enthusiastic sucking from John before Sherlock's groans became progressively more high-pitched, louder, less controlled, and his hips writhed, his whole body twitching with surprisingly violent spasms. Long fingers scratched at John's scalp warningly.

"I think...I think I'm _coming_." Sherlock grated. "J-John- John, I'm...I'm-..._Oh_!" Sherlock's body spasmed as his orgasm crested suddenly, more powerful than he'd expected after being held back for so long. He muffled his shout against his hand, his throat burning with the effort of holding back, though a couple of sharp, loud whimpers forced themselves from him. Actual tears prickled his eyes at the overwhelming sensation as he emptied himself into John's mouth. It was unbearable.

"Sherlock? Sweetheart, are you all right?" John's voice was rough and scratchy and Sherlock opened his eyes to find John hovering above him, concerned, lips red and swollen. Sherlock surged upward, kissing John as passionately as he could, trying to taste himself in John's mouth and moaning when he did.

"You taste like me." He whispered reverently, fingers tracing the swell of John's lips.

John snorted. "I taste like your cock...and come."

Sherlock half-grinned but John could see residual paranoia in his tense features. He wanted to thumb away the moisture on his face - the sweat glistening beautifully on his flushed cheekbones, and in the sweet dent of his cupid's-bow upper lip. He knew however, that Sherlock would freak out when he realised John was actually trying to erase the visible wetness around his eyes. So instead he kissed him, reassuring Sherlock through wordless gestures and the gentle skid of his hands against his skin how beautiful he thought he was. The point was driven home, though, when John rocked his own erection, forgotten about in the heat of pleasuring Sherlock, against Sherlock's hip, moaning.

"John can I just...two minutes?" Sherlock asked, licking away the fresh drop of sweat from his impossible top lip that the doctor had been eyeing hungrily. Sherlock was practically steaming, and John grinned, somewhat smugly.

"Have you...done that before?" He croaked, clearing his throat and sitting up against the plump pillows, glancing down at his still-tremulous muscles with fascination, before dragging the sheet from the lilo to cover his modesty.

"Mm. Years ago. Not since I was in my twenties." John stretched out beside Sherlock, content to let his arousal simmer for a while, pleased he'd been able to reduce Sherlock to the semi-boneless state he was currently in. As far as that went, he could take care of himself. If Sherlock was too tired...

"Who?"

John, his hand hovering in the act of giving his cock an indulgent stroke, frowned. "What?"

"Who? Who else have you done that to- _when you were in your twenties_?" Sherlock demanded, looking suddenly more alert.

"A friend. We were close, both trainee doctors. I suppose...he was my boyfriend for a bit, but it didn't even really register until after we broke up, you know what I mean?" John asked, before realising with dread that _no_, Sherlock _didn't_ know what he meant.

"Is that what we are?" All the lovely, lazy lassitude was gone from Sherlock's face, leaving behind a fragile sharpness that made John regret ever bringing it up. "Are we just...just...fuck buddies? Someone you can have a quick one-off with and not worry about entanglements?"

John was getting a little irritated by Sherlock's worrying displays of jealousy and self-consciousness. He felt that, at this point, he'd made it clear how he felt about Sherlock and he decided it'd be best to speak bluntly.

"Sherlock, don't be a dick. When have I ever given you that impression? I adore you- you of all people must realise that. Everybody else seems to realise it, and that was, let's see...barely 24 hours after we first met. So stop being ridiculous and realize that this-" John gestured agitatedly between them. "-isn't like anything else. I'm committed to you- for as long as you'll have me- and this is honestly the most important thing to me."

He sighed, getting off the bed and flopping down onto the lilo, throwing his arm over his face and honestly, just ready to go to sleep. He heard Sherlock shift on the bed, obviously mulling things over and dissecting everything John had just said, trying no doubt to find hidden meanings in every sentence.

"John?" Sherlock asked, tentative and unsure.

"Mmm?"

"Do you...I- I would still like to make you orgasm."

John grinned, despite himself. "Promise you'll do it without sulking, sub-plotting, or thinking of _any_ kind?"

"Yes." Sherlock pouted. He was capable of getting John off without doing...any of that. John's arm fell away from his face and he smiled up at Sherlock.

"All right. What do you want to do?"

Sherlock hastily put his underwear and trousers back on- wriggling about under the sheet to manage it- before settling himself astride John's bare, muscled legs on the lilo, hoping the inflatable would be able to take their combined weights. He was hesitant to ask his next question, conscious of John's request that he didn't 'sub-plot' during an act of intimacy. But it had to be done.

"Have you ever been penetrated?"

The question obviously took John by surprise and he flushed. "Uh. Yeah. Long time ago, though."

Sherlock allowed himself the barest second for a surge of jealousy that someone else had penetrated _his_ John...before relaxing. He didn't want to make John angry. He wasn't supposed to be sulking.

"Why?" John asked in the pause. "Is that what you want to do?" His eyes flicked down to Sherlock's still-soft and sated cock.

"I'd like to...put my fingers inside you." Sherlock licked his lips self-consciously, eyes averted briefly. He suddenly added. "I've done some research. About the prostate. I can stimulate it for you." He smiled hopefully.

"You've done research?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the trepidation mingled with curiosity he heard in John's voice. "Yes. _Extensive_ research about the prostate." He stressed, smiling coyly at John. Instead of looking aroused, though, John looked a bit worried.

"Um. Right. O-ok." John cleared his throat. "If that's what you want-"

Sherlock scrambled to the side and snatched up the lube, excited.

"I want to see if I can milk you." He stated.

John's eyes went wide. "You know that's not actually...pleasurable, right, Sherlock? It's not...I don't _come_ that way?"

"It's not? ...But it was on the porn sites..." Sherlock looked deeply troubled.

"I think we need a new rule." John said, smiling ruefully at Sherlock. "You are not allowed to watch porn."

"_You_ watch it all the time."

"Yeah, because I realise that not everything I see is real." John replied gently, bringing Sherlock's hand to his lips and giving it a quick kiss to take the sting out of his words. "99% of what you see in porn is a load of shit, Sherlock. It's all acting and trust me, very few find..._that_...the..._milking_ a huge turn on. On a regular basis." John cleared his throat and averted his eyes again.

"So...um...but it is pleasurable? If I penetrate you with my fingers? A bit?"

"Yeah. Course it is."

John lay back on the lilo, letting Sherlock clamber between his legs. He watched as the detective poured out a bit of lube onto his hand.

"More than that." John instructed. "More. Bit more...You're not taking me almost bloody _raw_, Sherlock. There. That's a good amount."

Sherlock looked at the sizable puddle of lubricant in his hand and resisted the urge to tell John they hadn't used this much in the porn he'd watched.

Biting the inside of his bottom lip, Sherlock wondered if he was cut out for any of this. Hesitantly, he squelched the liquid over his fingers, the scent of artificial cherry overpowering. Maybe he should never have started this, he thought, heart leaping when John let his legs fall further to the side, spreading himself unashamedly for Sherlock's perusal. Maybe he should have stuck to being celibate. It was much less complicated and-

"_Ohhh...god..."_ John breathed, spine arching at the first prod of Sherlock's finger against his hole.

Sherlock froze, his fingertip barely pushing at John's opening, before pulling away with worry. "John?"

"Nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong...God." John's hips did a strange, shivery grind against the bed. "It's great. Just...go slow, Sherlock."

Confused, but embarrassed to ask for even more guidance and direction, Sherlock let out a nervous exhale and rubbed gently at the skin of John's entrance, smearing it with the fruity lubricant. On impulse, eyes fixed intently on the previously-unseen territory between John's legs, Sherlock pushed his legs further apart and ducked down to kiss where his finger had just been, licking.

"_Sherlock_!" John's entire body jolted in shock and he bolted upright, trying to pull his legs together but with Sherlock still sitting between them he couldn't.

"Did I do it wrong?" Sherlock asked, unnerved by John's shocked expression.

John sagged, his throat working hard before he was able to form words. "No. No, you didn't...you didn't do wrong."

Sherlock looked adorably baffled, and his brow crinkled. "Then what's the matter?"

"You just...surprised me. No one's ever...done that."

Something warm and delicious curled in Sherlock's chest. "Can I do it again?"

"Sherlock...whatever you want." John huffed with a perfect, honest laugh, his deep-blue eyes darkened even more by his heavily-dilated pupils. His tongue snaked out and ran over his lips, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to move up his doctors' body and snag it in a kiss, but he relented, reluctantly, turning his attention to between John's legs. _No one's ever done this. You're his first_.

He wondered if John felt this way- the swoop of arousal and the demanding possessiveness of knowing no one else had touched John the way he was about to- when John did things to him. He rather thought not, because the idea made Sherlock want to hide John away from the rest of the world and keep him all to himself...and John didn't seem to struggle with any emotions like that.

"Try not to suffocate me with involuntary muscle spasms." Sherlock grinned and John chuckled too, biting his thin bottom lip.

"I'll do my best."

Sherlock's face eased into its intensive-concentration expression, and he moved once more to lavish his tongue slowly, but firmly, against John's opening.

The response was immediate. John's muscles clenched and he moaned, a low, grating sound that, if Sherlock hadn't been so sated, would have made him hard again. The opening under this tongue contracted and Sherlock massaged it with his tongue, coaxing it to open again.

John was far less restrained in his vocalisations than Sherlock had been and sighed and moaned extravagantly, before Sherlock pulled back with a shameless, smug grin and inserted one slick finger inside John.

It went in easily, slipping inside John's body without almost no resistance and this time, Sherlock's groan echoed John's.

"I'm inside you." He whispered, awed, eyes wide and admiring.

John whimpered faintly, teeth biting down on his bottom lip hard. His hands stuttered over the floor, before raking across his own thighs, and he huffed out a few sharp breaths. Distantly, he reminded himself that Sherlock would benefit from some gentle instruction. "Thrust a bit...slowly...then add another." he gasped.

Sherlock, as it turned out, was surprisingly skilled at taking instructions. Before too long, he had three fingers inside John, thrusting them with increasing frequency. John was groaning, eyes tightly closed, fisting his cock almost desperately, the wet, fleshy sound of his strokes loud in the quiet of their room.

"Oh...Sherlock...f-fuck me harder. _Harder_-" John shouted which Sherlock immediately obeyed, pistoning his hand faster and rotating his wrist a bit, searching...

Sherlock felt high, positively _crazed_, as he pumped harder into his lover, eyes bright and gleeful as John began to buck. His arm ached with effort but he managed to speed up even more, laughing with heady intoxication.

All thoughts of going back to celibacy or that this was all a bad idea were banished forever from Sherlock's mind. He was _good_ at this. He was pleasuring John and, from the way John looked utterly tortured, he wasn't far away from-

"Oh- _shit_!" John cried, his cock twitching in his hand as he came, come dribbling over his fingers in warm, thick pulses.

Sherlock carefully massaged John with his slick fingers, his wrist being forced to adapt position as John's hips shuddered and thrust, helplessly, and powerfully. John gasped almost asthmatically and took a hold of Sherlock's slim wrist, stilling his movement and slumping onto the bed. He squeezed the prominent bone there lovingly, in wordless thanks.

"Was that satisfactory?"

"You have to ask?" John giggled, high and thready, wincing when Sherlock carefully removed his hand. He chuckled into the deep, sloppy kiss that he was treated with, before pulling back, breathless. "Let's go to bed, Sherl."

* * *

Three feet away, on the other side of the wall, Molly Hooper came with a groan she barely managed to muffle by biting down on her teddy bear.


	7. Because She Wants To

**This chapter depicts what Molly heard on the other side of the wall- namely listening to Sherlock and John have sex- and how she reacted to that. **

**Enjoy :D**

* * *

Molly had handed over her half-empty bottle of Durex cherry-flavored lube (bought at an Ann Summers a while back) with a strained smile that, on hindsight, probably looked more like a grimace. The idea of what it was going to be used for- when she had been so sure it would be used with _her- _was painful.

Molly's night had only got worse when John liberated the lilo from her bedroom, dragging it to the bedroom next door. It'd been obvious she'd expected Sherlock to sleep in her room. That, coupled with the knowledge that John and Sherlock were a couple and John was actively "in the process of taking Sherlock's virginity," made Molly feel as if she'd never be able to look John in the face again.

Dragging the lilo out of her room, John had looked as embarrassed as Molly felt, which only made her feel worse. Sherlock she could forgive because he seemed just as oblivious of the tension in the flat as ever. But John…John was nowhere as innocent as Sherlock. He knew.

Molly sighed, fluffing her pillow in the darkness of her bedroom in a fruitless effort at getting comfortable, and allowed the blush she'd fought the last hour or so flame into existence now that she was alone.

She'd never been more embarrassed in her entire life. Not even the time Sherlock had deduced, in front of Detective Inspector Lestrade, that she was sleeping with a co-worker and had semen stains on her skirt which could possibly compromise the integrity of her autopsies.

Molly sat up resignedly, pulling out the scruffy hair tie that was keeping her straightened locks in a loose ponytail, and then sank back down, clutching her fifteen-year-old teddy bear Sigmund to her chest. She could hear the faint conversation between John and Sherlock in the room next door, able to pick out most of the words.

John and Sherlock were...together.

Molly winced.

She should've known, she thought with a healthy dose of self-recrimination. _Everyone_ had already thought John and Sherlock were together but she'd dismissed it all. Rumours. Lies. Slanderous gossip. John was straight and Sherlock was...Sherlock.

Apparently, though, something had shifted. Sherlock must've bewitched the adamantly straight doctor much as he had bewitched Molly the very first time he'd walked purposefully into her lab and demanded to view a corpse on her list. He'd offered the most sincere, irresistible, crinkly smile, as well as a few (fake, she later found out) credentials. He'd leaned over the eviscerated body, gnawing his plump bottom lip, his pale eyes flickering intently over the gaping wound on the abdomen of the woman's body, before pulling back confidently.

"Thank you,...Molly." He'd said, glancing at her name badge, before dramatically leaving the lab, coat flapping behind him, texting rapidly with one long, pale hand.

Molly had been hooked.

"...What's this, Sherlock? Last I remember you were flirting with someone else..."

John's voice drifted through the thin wall and Molly's heart leapt in her throat. John thought Sherlock had been flirting with _her_? She hoped they weren't about to have a row...but at the same time a treacherous, dark part of her heart hoped they _would_ have a row- a bad one- and break up. Then she could comfort Sherlock. She'd be the good friend, the shoulder to cry on, the one to offer comfort, and Sherlock may fall in love with her.

Molly wasn't proud of it. She even rather hated herself for being so mean-spirited and weak but...there it was.

Molly sat up a little more in her bed, adjusting the chemise she was wearing, and started actively listening to the conversation.

"...it is in actual fact a bit not good to flirt with someone else in front of your partner," she heard John enunciate.

"...Sorry?"

Oh- Sherlock had apologized? _Sherlock Holmes_ had apologized? Molly waited with bated breath for John's answer...

"Sherlock, get naked. Now."

"Why?"

"So I can do incredibly naughty things to you."

Molly felt a familiar twinge in her abdomen, a quickening in the pit of her stomach, and was about to tentatively move her hands to her crotch…when she realised they were already there.

Molly bit her lip, shame she was touching herself while listening to Sherlock and John warring with a steadily growing desire to _keep_ touching herself until-

"Nope...planning on it...Was planning on sucking your cock...take your trousers off."

Molly shook her head, unable to believe it, as she gave into the temptation to masturbate. If the two men next door were going to be so overt- in _her_ flat- she would at least indulge herself. She slumped down in the bed, spread her legs, closed her eyes, and envisaged Sherlock stripping.

Her mind conjured up pale, bare skin. A pleasantly defined chest. Strong but lean legs, covered in a fine dusting of black hair. And his cock- Molly bit her lip, her fingers sliding through wetness as she circled a finger around and around the entrance to her cunt, teasing herself- Sherlock's cock was probably long, since he was tall. And she'd seen his shoes. One always said: men with big feet...

"_Oh_."

Molly shivered at the soft, deep exclamation which could have only come from one of the men in the next room. Ears straining, she heard a gasp and quickly sat up, scrabbling in her bedside drawer for her vibrator. Settling back breathlessly, elbowing her cuddly toy out of the way, she circled the toy around her clitoris, spreading her wetness around the tip, before penetrating herself slowly but firmly with the bulbous rubber shaft, the fingers of her right hand tapping and nudging teasingly over her sensitive little nodule. She shuddered, spine arching a bit at the delicious intrusion.

"…Oh, _Christ_."

Molly bit her lip to suppress a moan at the sound of Sherlock swearing. She could picture it- Sherlock standing- or no, lying on his back, she decided, spinning her fantasy the way she wanted-and John kneeling between his legs, sucking at his cock, Sherlock throwing his head back and closing his eyes...

"...do something else...I'll suck your c-cock...I've got lube...We can...Mutual masturbation..."

Feeling herself beginning to sweat with the effort and with the heat of the unnaturally humid Spring weather, Molly kicked off her bedsheets, both hands between her legs. She spread her legs further and puffed a quick exhale to blow her long hair out of her eyes. There was little conversation from next door that she could actually hear, but a minute later, a strained request from John sounded out...

"Come on, love. Want to see you come. Come on, Sherlock."

Molly started pumping her vibrator hard, the fingers of her right hand struggling in slick patterns over her clit. She relinquished a gentle touch in favour of a quick, focussed rhythm, her wrist blurring in its movement at her crotch.

She panted, her heart racing, brow creasing in concentration as she felt her orgasm start to build between her legs, tingling sweetly through her abdomen and down into her groin.

"I think...I'm coming." She heard Sherlock gasp and Molly whimpered, picturing Sherlock above her, that instead of her vibrator it was Sherlock inside her, pounding in to her and about to come. His face would be contorted sweetly, eyes wide in innocent surprise at the feeling of immense pleasure he was experiencing, hips pumping quickly, smacking loudly into her skin, his lips forming her name as he came-

"J-John- _John_, I'm...I'm-..._Oh_!"

Molly heard the strangled words exceptionally clearly and her face contorted in frustration as her fantasy was intruded by John, the sound of his name shattering her fantasy. Suddenly it was him taking her place and insinuating himself between Sherlock's legs.

She squirmed on the bed in silent frustration, her orgasm, which had been looming and promising, now abated, leaving her throbbing in denial. Molly sighed, taking her hands away from between her legs and fisting them in the sheet beneath her.

She felt like an idiot for having made the fantasy...but luckily no one but herself would know about it. Maybe, after John and Sherlock settled down, she'd power up her laptop and scroll through her usual porn websites, get herself off to much safer material than what was going on next door.

After a few minutes, there were no further sounds from next door and Molly had decided to quietly retrieve her laptop from across the room when-

"I- I would still like to make you orgasm."

Molly's clit gave a violent throb at Sherlock's tentative, sweet voice and her hands leapt down to caress herself again. _Oh, yes, would you?_

Her small pink tongue protruded between lips set in an impossibly innocent-looking face. Molly set up a quick, no-nonsense massage between her legs.

"Have you ever been penetrated?"

Molly sighed heavily at the self-conscious words from the beautiful detective in the next bedroom, spreading herself with her left hand whilst simultaneously inserting the vibrator even more deeply, using the tip of her right forefinger to stimulate her clitoris.

"I'd like to...put my fingers inside you."

Oh, oh yes _please_, Molly frantically thought to herself, her mind already spinning another fantasy, placing herself on her back with _Sherlock_ kneeling between her spread legs, his eyes keen and penetrating, staring at her and planning his next move.

Penetration_. Oh, yes_. Sherlock slowly, slowly sliding his cock into her wet cunt, letting Molly feel herself stretch around him. He wouldn't stop until he was all the way inside, watching her every reaction….before just as slowly, torturously, pulling out- then slamming back inside, setting up a hard rhythm.

Molly's mouth fell open and she panted, coaxing her body to pleasure as the sensations coiled tighter and tighter. Sucking on her bottom lip, eyes closed in utter luxury, she grinned as she listened to Sherlock's irresistible baritone, just metres away from her. In the heady darkness, she forced her toy harder and deeper inside herself, gasping indulgently, her heels skidding on her duvet as she pumped her hips upward in time to her self-induced thrusts.

She couldn't hear everything John and Sherlock were saying, only the occasional odd word that made no sense- something about milk, which was puzzling- but the rumble of Sherlock's voice through the wall was enough to speed her along. Molly rolled her hips as she flicked the button on her vibrator, finally turning it on, the buzzing sending her body into quick little shocks of pleasure, promising presages of more to come.

"_Ohhh...god..." _She heard John moan shamelessly soon after, and she bit down a yelp as she held her vibrator still, postponing her imminent climax. What was Sherlock _doing_? What could he be doing to _her_? ...He could have…have pulled out to lick her to completion...

Molly imagined Sherlock's head between his thighs, his curls falling forward over his face as he devoted himself to the task. She gently rubbed at her clit, imagining Sherlock's tongue flicking against it, his fingers…

"I'm inside you." Sherlock's awed voice broke through her fantasy from the other side of the wall and Molly gasped, moving her vibrator again with steady will, feeling as if she were almost being directed by Sherlock.

Swirling her index and middle finger in a practised rhythm she had perfected when she was thirteen, Molly shifted on her bed, close to a climax but holding out as long as she could, wanting to hear more.

Just as she upped the speed on her vibrator, forcing it inside herself with slippery, almost-numb fingers, she heard a few words from the broken doctor that nearly pushed her over the edge.

"Oh...Sherlock...f-fuck me harder. _Harder_-"

Molly moaned, twisting her head to the side and encountering something soft and warm. She panted against it, distantly aware of the sound of John shouting, obviously coming but easily ignored- focusing on the rising tide of her own pleasure, imagining herself begging Sherlock in such a way…

Yes...oh _yes_, just a bit...a bit more...

"Was that satisfactory?"

A sudden, unnervingly life-like image of Sherlock tonguing voraciously between her legs, one large pale thumb circling almost indifferently at her clitoris, with a wicked smile on his face, eyes twinkling mischievously appeared in Molly's mind. She struggled with the force of her imminent orgasm, hands working at herself desperately, her chest heaving forcefully within the confines of her lacy chemise.

"...go to bed...Sherlock."

No,no,_no_! She needed something else, just one more little noise to push her over the edge-

Sherlock moaned, the sound of the lilo rasping against his body in the background, low and pleasured-

And Molly came, biting down on her stuffed bear to contain her cries.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she apologised to Sigmund as she rode out her bittersweet orgasm. Her fingers quickly eased away her forceful aftershocks and she sobbed, her hips jolting, her long hair sticking to the sweet, frustrated sweat upon her face.

When it was finally over, Molly sighed, sinking onto her bed, feeling utterly boneless and nicely sated. She stretched, revelling in the aftershocks of her orgasm.

It was quiet on the other side of the wall and Molly smiled, easing her vibrator out, promising to clean it tomorrow. The last thing she wanted was to bump into Sherlock and John on the way to the loo with a vibrator clutched in her hands.

* * *

Three feet away, on the other side of the wall, Sherlock smirked into his pillow as he heard the tell-tale squeaks of Molly's mattress as she came down from her climax.


	8. Practice

Sherlock slept like the dead- once he actually _went to sleep,_ that was. John smiled at the sight of Sherlock sprawled on his back like a pale starfish on the bed, mouth parted slightly and emitting the tiniest of snores as he slept. The room was barely illuminated by a weak, watery yellow light from outside which penetrated the net curtains. The sun had yet to rise and the air held a breathless hush as the entire world seemed to wait for the first rays of sunshine.

John himself had been awake for a while, the lilo too uncomfortable for him to sleep very well. Not hearing any signs of life from outside their room, though, he hadn't wanted to get up and inadvertently wake Molly...so he'd stayed put on the lilo, and just..._stared_ at the gorgeous sight beside him.

Indulgently, John knelt up and tentatively spread his hand over Sherlock's bare chest, relishing the inexplicably soft skin and fine hair there. Sherlock's skin was hot, smooth, and while Sherlock slept on, oblivious, John made his own personal investigation of the scars on his detective's sternum and pectorals. He used his fingertips as sensors, transferring physical knowledge of keloid bumps and damaged streaks of skin, to his expert mind, sensing every injury Sherlock had sustained.

He frowned in the dark, wondering why Sherlock wouldn't let him look at him, was still so shy about revealing any part of his body to John.

_I'll have to get him out of that_, John thought, tracing over one dark nipple, making Sherlock arch and shift on the bed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. John took his hand away, holding his breath, but Sherlock settled again and he breathed a sigh of relief.

He'd meant what he said more than a week ago at the flat- he fully planned on kissing every inch of Sherlock's body until the genius _had_ to believe him...but to accomplish that John had to get Sherlock naked and Sherlock was...reluctant.

"Sherl? Are you awake?" John whispered, leaning close to the bed, his voice guttural in the humid darkness.A sleepy sigh was all he got in return and John smiled fondly (feeling incredibly sappy as he did so) and smoothed Sherlock's hair back from his forehead. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's large, long-fingered fist pushed itself into his own eye with considerable roughness, knuckling it agitatedly, and he finally managed to meet John's eyes in the dark with bleary, tenuous concentration.

"Mmm?"

"Sherlock, can I lay with you? This lilo's really fucking me over and to be honest, it'd be nice to hold you."

"There's not room for us both. You decided that last night." Came the sleepy reply but Sherlock shuffled over just the same, making the smallest of spaces for John to climb up on the bed. Once there, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's middle to not only cuddle the over-large child but also to anchor himself and keep from falling off the bed.

John snuffled against Sherlock with a soft laugh, hugging him tight and kissing the back of his neck with a mouth distorted by a helpless grin, all teeth and stretched lips and heated giggles. He spooned the taller man with unrestrained pleasure, taking delight in the feel of Sherlock's body against his, overly warm and snuggly under the covers.

Sherlock drowsily protested, making a small, irritated groan…but arched back against John for more attention.

"Your feet are cold." He muttered and John promptly stuck them between Sherlock's calves. He laughed, holding on to Sherlock as he bucked and hissed, churning the sheets like a restless sea as he tried to get the icy digits away from his sleep-warmed body.

"Sshhh. We don't want to wake Molly." John whispered, giggling, and Sherlock finally settled- but just as quickly tensed in John's arms as he came to a startling conclusion.

"…This is the first time." Sherlock said anxiously into the darkness. "This is our _first_ time in a bed. Together."

"Mm." John pressed another kiss to Sherlock's now tensed neck and he heard Sherlock take a deep breath.

"Should we...have sex? To commemorate the occasion?" Sherlock's voice was soft and tentative, unsure, and tugged at something fierce and protective in John's chest.

"Not unless you want to."

"Oh." Sherlock paused, audibly swallowed, then... "No. I- I quite like just...this."

"Just this?" John uttered in a devilishly-innocent deep voice. "That's fine. Fair enough. Shame, though...I'm really in the mood to make you climax so hard you'll be blind for ten minutes afterwards and depending on my hands and voice to dictate how to finish me off."

"John." Sherlock reprimanded softly, voice choked, his skin flaming with colour, and John chuckled, nosing his way into the soft baby curls at the base of Sherlock's neck and breathing in the warm, sleepy-softness of him.

"I'm teasing, Sherlock. Seriously. I don't mind- we'll do whatever you want." He sighed, contented, and Sherlock shuffled back into his embrace, pushing John the tiniest bit closer to the edge of the bed.

John lost track of how long they lay together. Sherlock was motionless in front of him, his breaths even and deep, and John thought, after a few minutes, he'd gone back to sleep. It made something funny but pleasant rise in his chest at the idea of Sherlock falling asleep in his arms and he thought, for the first time, that maybe they should share a bed more often. He'd thought it was a good idea their keeping separate beds since they'd just started their relationship…but this was so nice. John could see himself falling asleep with Sherlock in his arms every night-

"John?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, jerking John out of his reverie.

John blinked his eyes, which had been preparing themselves for a well-deserved, luscious sleep now that he was in a real bed. Sherlock's heartbeat against John's chest had begun to prove itself as a wonderful, blood-heated, organic metronome that comforted him indescribably. "Yeah?"

"We could..." Sherlock paused, his body being held entirely motionless against John. "That is...that. What you said earlier. We could do that...if you still want to."

John honestly had to think for a few seconds about what Sherlock was talking about before it hit him. Then, his eye widened and his cock, which had been mostly soft and lax, twitched.

"Oh. I thought you said you didn't-"

"I'm more amenable now that I'm fully awake."

"Okay…that's…yeah. Okay, Sherlock." John murmured breathily against the detective's nape. "Let's..uhm…let's do each other. Face to face."

Sherlock obediently rolled over, letting John grasp at his arms and shoulders when the movement almost made him fall off the bed, and tugged the smaller man closer to him. John let himself be pulled against Sherlock's chest and quickly attacked his detective's plump, heart-shaped lips with a powerful kiss, a faint groan stuttering hungrily in the darkness. John groped gently between Sherlock's legs and when his fingers closed around Sherlock's cock, it was John's turn to groan into their kiss. Sherlock was already hard- had obviously been laying with John and thinking about what they were going to do and that...was _amazingly_ hot.

"God- _touch me,_ Sherlock." John pleaded needily, smoothing his own hand along Sherlock's shaft gently.

Sherlock grinned fiendishly, his large hand tickling teasingly near John's member. "How...how shall I touch you?"

John stifled a curse. "_With your hand_." He ground out, not prepared to deal with Sherlock _teasing_ him. "God…" He sighed shakily as Sherlock's fingers trailed nearer to his erection, those skilful digits refusing, it seemed, to do what John wanted them to do. "Oh, Christ..."

"Describe in every detail you can manage, how you want me to lick…or suck…or touch you. And I warn you, John, I won't be patient when it comes to your stuttered adjectives." Sherlock grinned with predatory amusement while John wondered where in the hell his shy virgin lover had gone, the one who had trouble articulating the simplest of things, and when this mischievous man had taken his place.

"_God_." John sighed, wrapping his hand more firmly around Sherlock's cock and squeezing. "Fuck - just fucking touch me, Sherlock. I want- I want your hand, wrapped around my cock, stroking-" John broke off when Sherlock's fingers did just that, wrapping around John's erection and carefully moving up and down. John huffed out a breath. "Just like that...slow..._yes_..."

Sherlock slowed his hand to a tortuous, snail-pace. "Slow enough?" he murmured, his wrist bumping awkwardly against John's in the dark as they both attempted to maintain their rhythms on each other's shafts.

"Not that slow." John grunted, still trying to stroke Sherlock off while at the same time let him do the same. John canted his hips away a bit, trying to make more room on the bed, moving himself precariously close to the edge and only freeing up a few inches of space. Sherlock let out a faint mewl of irritation as he tried to back away and make more room and hit the stone-cold wall. He quickly grabbed John's hip to prevent him falling from the narrow bed and sighed, irritated.

"This may soon become a bit of a faff." Sherlock announced quiet baritone that his doctor could tell was delightfully tainted with a grin, and John hummed in agreement, already calculating the logistics of what else they could do. Sherlock pulled away.

"Well, it was a nice thought but I suppose-"

"Where are you going?" John asked, not letting go of his grip of Sherlock's penis, causing the younger man to stiffen.

"I...I thought...this wasn't working so we'd..." He shrugged helplessly, bewildered. "Give up?"

"I'm not giving up until we've both had fucking spectacular orgasms." John declared, scooting closer to Sherlock and pressing their lips together again. "We just need to rethink what we're doing. You're good at that."

After a minute of kisses which were of a short-circuiting intensity, Sherlock pulled back, huffing inelegantly for breath, and quite frankly lost for words. "You, um...we were…I'm...what?"

"Come on, Sherlock. There's got to be something you want to try. I'm feeling...adventurous." John whispered playfully, sending a shudder down Sherlock's spine.

_There aren't enough years in our lifetimes to do everything I want to try and experience with you_, Sherlock's mind unhelpfully furnished and he frowned, trying to form a coherent plan. "…Well...I quite liked having your mouth...on me." he whispered in the dark, his earlier bravado evaporating.

"Mmm. I liked that too." John kissed Sherlock again, a hot press of their lips with a hint of teeth. He started slipping down the bed- Sherlock's cock twitched with the promise of that move- but he grabbed John before he got very far.

"I...liked my mouth on you, as well."

"Well, I think there's an obvious solution to this predicament." John grinned.

"Hhm?" Sherlock uttered, baffled. It took all of three seconds for him to gasp out. "_Oh_."

Even though it was too dark to see, John could visualize, in his mind's eye, the long, delectable jaw falling open and pale eyes widening and dilating in realisation.

"...Yes!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, rather loudly, sounding very pleased with himself. "I saw this in a porn!"

"Thought you might have done." John said, nudging at Sherlock until he had room to lay down and spending the next few minutes instructing a blushing, nervous Sherlock into position: on his hands and knees above John's body, his head hovering over John's cock and his own dangling enticingly over John's face. Sherlock was thoroughly humiliated by the position. He was also incredibly turned on by it.

"I'm very aroused." Sherlock admitted out of the blue, swallowing thickly and flexing his hips unconsciously, almost rubbing his testicles on John's forehead.

"Wonderful."

Sherlock's hips jumped at the feeling of warm breath against his erection and he strained his neck to look down, upside-down, at John, who gave him a grin.

"I might be very bad at this." Sherlock warned, after clearing his throat awkwardly. He tried to keep his eyes on John's face, but the bobbing, hot, shaft near his plump lips, giving off an irresistible sex-scented perfume, distracted him.

John sighed. "You're not going to be ba-_aaaaad_ - _Oh_!" John yelped when Sherlock, without warning, ducked down, engulfing John's erection in his mouth and sucking wetly at it. Hollowing his brutally-sharp cheeks, the brunette swallowed John's cock repeatedly and indulgently, his gag reflex as unresponsive as that of a professional competitive eater.

John spent a few seconds panting, staring blindly up at Sherlock's prick while his own was treated to a wonderful, fantastic blow job. When Sherlock huffed around his cock, John recovered, realizing he was being an inattentive slug, and strained his neck upward, sucking Sherlock's cock into his mouth.

The result was instant. Sherlock moaned around John's cock, his mouth going rather slack, and his hips rolled down, fucking himself into John's mouth reflexively.

After thirty seconds, it was going much better than expected...each gratified, pleasured groan from one man led to tantalising vibrations on the shaft of the other, which resulted in a short buck and a reflexive suckle, and so on in a deliriously perfect vicious circle. John could feel himself getting close, the tingling pleasure in his pelvis getting tighter and hotter and he thought Sherlock was getting close as well. The taller man's hips were jumping against where John's hands held them, trying to keep Sherlock from choking him.

John's hands slipped as he tried to restrain Sherlock's hips, which had begun to pump aggressively into his throat, causing him to gag and slap redundantly at Sherlock's excited thighs in a mute plea for liberation. John muzzily realized he should have _known_ better than to let Sherlock be on top for this as the other man kept thrusting, ignoring John's fists, his pace picking up, his own mouth now totally slack and unresponsive around John's cock. He groaned, frenzied and high-pitched, which was the only warning John got before Sherlock was abruptly coming down his throat.

A grating howl tore itself from Sherlock's throat as he shuddered through his climax, his teeth gritted and eyes squinched shut, pumping ejaculate into the warm, wet, tight receptacle that encompassed him. John tried to swallow as much as he could, his abused throat working frantically, but couldn't get it all. He choked, coughing around Sherlock's still twitching penis, eyes watering as he struggled to breathe. He heaved his body up, thrashing, and Sherlock mistook the movement as John wanting him to resume sucking his cock, which he fell on with lazy gusto now that his own orgasm was through.

John, desperately needing air, rudely shoved Sherlock away from him, the taller man falling heavily to the floor with a sharp thud. Sherlock winced before being greeted with a series of wet, throaty gagging noises that sounded as if John was about to throw up. Blundering around on the floor, incredibly shaky and pleasantly-numbed from his mind-blowing climax, he crawled back to the bed and extended a supportive, uncertain hand in the gloom.

"John- John, what-?"

John coughed wetly, ignoring the hand and gasping. "You fucking git." He wheezed, streaming eyes glaring at Sherlock in the dark. He coughed again, spit and semen running down his chin as Sherlock stared at him helplessly.

"Um...it was good, John...don't feel..." Sherlock fought for words feebly, desperately wanting to console the inexplicably pissed-off doctor. "...Don't feel inadequate?"

"Inadequate?" John croaked, massaging his throat as he stared at Sherlock. "_Inadequate_?" He closed his eyes, fighting for control, and Sherlock felt a frisson of worry blaze up his spine.

"Should I…do you want me to reciprocate?" He asked, hands inching towards John's now flaccid cock.

"No." John jerked away, and then sighed, giving Sherlock a half-apologetic stare, half-murderous. "No that's...that's ok. Thank you."

Sherlock was truly bewildered. "Um..." He licked his lips self-consciously and briefly entertained the notion of popping next door and asking Molly '_what he had done to upset his man_.' Surely that was a regular article in the women's magazines she seemed adamant on purchasing (and collecting. The earliest ones he'd seen in the huge stack in her front room, dated 2008, had _exactly_ the same front cover headlines as all the subsequent ones.) Being able to please the potential father of your future offspring seemed to be a recurring feature.

He watched John repeatedly clear his throat, wincing, his mind working at top speed.

_Oh_.

"I...should not have..." Sherlock searched for an appropriate word "...reached orgasm down your throat."

"Well spotted." Came the acidic reply and Sherlock, now he knew what he'd done wrong, felt better.

"I wasn't expecting it to feel so good." He said, trying to explain, get himself out of trouble, and make John feel good at the same time. "Doing that together...it felt much better than doing it separately, one at a time. I got...carried away."

John glared at him, massaging his throat.

"You should have said something." Sherlock attempted jokily, smiling, the twinkle in his eyes almost visible in the gloom.

"Yeah, I would have thought my pounding on your leg was saying something." John groused, standing from the bed and wiping at his chin disgustedly.

"Are you...angry?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer and feeling very small and stupid. John sighed.

"No- yes. I'm not really angry I'm more...frustrated."

Sherlock watched John pull on his boxers and sit back down on the bed, with a sinking feeling in his chest. Something must have shown on his face because John, shoulders sagging, kissed Sherlock's forehead.

"I'm not mad at you, you crazy git."

The tsunami of anxiety he'd been trying to repress swamped Sherlock as he shivered unexpectedly and pulled away from John with the smallest, apologetic but rather aborted pat on his knee. He settled himself on the lilo beside the bed. _You failed,_ a familiar voice in his head scolded him.

"I'm going to make some coffee, ok?" John said, setting his hair to rights. "Want anything?"

_Redemption. Understanding. Better control of myself. A normal mind_.

"No, ta." Sherlock mumbled, snuggling onto the lilo, breathing in the smell of John, and swallowing thickly as he heard the bedroom door close behind John, feeling crushed and unworthy.


End file.
